Free Play
by silverluna
Summary: There is only one thing Yang still wants, but first she will play another game with Shawn Spencer. Everyone Shawn knows is now in mortal danger, starting with the two SBPD detectives he knows best. "An Evening With Mr. Yang" Spoilers.
1. Prologue: I Crossed Over The Line

**Free Play**

A _Psych_ Story

By silverluna

Summary: Six months have passed since the events revolving around the return of the infamous Santa Barbara serial killer, "Mr. Yang". During a routine prison transport, Yang's escape is aided by a former Yin Yang Killer profiler who had worked side by side with the SBPD during Yang's latest return. There is only one thing Yang still wants, but first she wants to play another game with Shawn Spencer. Everyone Shawn knows is now in mortal danger, starting with the two SBPD detectives he knows best.

**Major spoilers for Season Three's "An Evening with Mr. Yang".**

Main Characters: Shawn Spencer, Juliet O'Hara, Carlton Lassiter, "Mr. Yang", Mary Lightly

Other Characters: Burton "Gus" Guster, Karen Vick, Buzz McNab, Henry Spencer, others

Pairings: Shawn Spencer/ Juliet O'Hara (minor Shules)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort/ "Whumpage", Suspense, Drama, Mystery.

Timeline: Season Three/ Pre-Season Four. I'm counting six months from late February (when the episode aired) to mid-to-late July.

Rating is for language, violence and whumpage.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. In other words, I own absolutely nothing having to do with Psych. This story is purely for fun and still, alas, no money is being made by me from it. I also do not own any of the songs from which I may name the chapters after.

I credit Wikipedia for information about the concept Yin Yang, VW Beetles and Glocks.

Author's Note: My third _Psych_ fic! And at the same time as another one, but I didn't want to hold off on this one so I hope I can do both at the same time. Well, I know practically everyone has had an idea about this episode, but I guess I do too. Absolutely no character is safe from whump, and there will be much of it. As always, I appreciate reviews and feedback. Happy reading!

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Prologue: So You've Heard, I Crossed Over The Line**

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Perhaps their first mistake was following the signs— official looking yellow caution diamonds and squares, or orange triangles with large, black lettering: "Detour", "Road Closed Ahead".

Carlton Lassiter cursed. "What the hell is this? Doesn't the road crew know we have to get to a crime scene here?" He may have attempted to maneuver his red Crown Vic around the barriers, cursing again with his foot stomped down heavily on the brake, but gazing ahead of them at the solid forms of road blocks, gave in.

Juliet O'Hara eyed him without a word from the passenger seat. Just like her partner to believe the world around them should accommodate his needs at all times.

They turned left, off the main road and onto one less well maintained. Juliet was thinking, instead, as her partner made his choice, _How strange_. The GPS directions she had gone over had mentioned nothing about roadwork or a detour.

They wouldn't have had any way of knowing; the knowledge was secret for a long time because the prison transport bus lay at the bottom of a ravine, its metal front concave by the force of the impact, its windshield smashed. Both guards, the driver and the back-up, wore identical bullet holes between their eyes, though the driver's torso was halfway through the window, his neck stretched to an unusual angle. It didn't matter— he was dead before the bus rolled off the edge of the cliff, but she knew, if she could have seen it, the human body twisted about unnaturally, it would have given her a moment's smile.

The bus had had to swerve to avoid the green VW Beetle, the dark green of deep summer foliage that had been neatly hiding away in a patch of bushes and trees on the side of the road.

Escape— her accomplice surely didn't seem the type to even be capable of holding a 12-gauge shotgun in his thin arms, let alone to having such an accurate aim to shoot out the passenger side tires all before the occupants could even reach for their dispatch Walkie Talkies. Later, she had to ask, quizzing him excitedly like a child, as it had been such an expert job for an amateur— were these really the first people he'd ever killed? How many times had he made it look like an accident? What about hiding the bodies, did he have experience in that too? She, of course, had been ready, waiting as patiently as one who is shackled— a known and dangerous murderer— can wait. She had entertained herself with closed mouth smiles, silent riddles, and mental picture after picture of the very last time she had been face to face with Shawn Spencer.

He was the reason she was getting out. Not the means of her escape; for that, she had another, someone wholly devoted to her and her actions. (It seemed, without her, his life had been quite dull.) Years and years passed where everyone had assumed the Yin Yang killer was a man. Light inside darkness, darkness inside light— the perfect balance. Not one without the other. Or, precisely according to Chinese philosophy: "how seemingly disjunct or opposing forces are interconnected and interdependent in the natural world, giving rise to each other in turn." She laughed at herself. Through the years she had crafted her clues and crimes, her kills— but she had not found her equal until six months prior. Then, she had _let_ him best her— perhaps a mistake— a weakness for not only his good looks which were only enhanced with his fear and disgust— but also the way he'd kept up— unyielding, to assure a stranger, then his mother, would stay alive.

Another weakness; she would have done anything to have him sit with her; he resisted, repulsed. He had been too close to the danger— perhaps it had been a mistake taking his mother. Still, she was not the least cowed. He had denied so strongly that they could be evenly matched, because she was a killer and he was not. Who would want that, or could appreciate it, just after the seconds the sentiments have been uttered, the admiration of a serial killer?

She had to face it— their games were not done. She felt towards him the way a panther hungers towards its already wounded prey, with lust for taste of that first blood. He belonged to her, because she had made the deepest cut, she had marked him, and she must be there to claim her possession. He was the only one, in all her years in this business (the business of pleasure), able to keep up, able to fake out his police allies, act unafraid possibly causing the death of a stranger by tossing a cell phone into the ocean. He didn't even know _her— _no, not the waitress, but _she, his match_— but he_ did._ It had certainly surprised her; she'd felt a little flutter that he really was earning the treasured space of her one material possession on the shelf inside her chest— where others, non-sociopaths or killers, may have placed their hearts.

He had also done the one thing that no one had ever been able to do— spare her hand. It had been, had she declared death, then death it was, regardless of the so-called actions of her targets. She was sometimes easily bored, but never once, had Shawn Spencer let her be. He was special— she had been correct in choosing him to play for other reasons than just liking his hair.

She hadn't been serious about the book, of course, but she felt that, because he was her match, he deserved a warning: they _would_ be seeing each other again.

She occupied herself while her accomplice dispatched the guards by reliving the moments of the briefest touch they'd shared— the one delicious moment of electrical charge as she readily handed over the device. It was all worth it, she decided, to be here, at this moment. She escaped, an orange stain into a perfect day, bleeding from its twilight. It would be dark soon.

* * *

It was deliberate, but neither Carlton nor Juliet knew that— not until much later, after they'd woken. Because it was a back road, Lassiter had accelerated to fifty, which was steadily climbing to fifty-five as he debated if attaching his lights and cranking the siren would have any merit in speeding up their journey. He wasn't going to admit it to his partner, but this road wasn't familiar. O'Hara seemed to sense his frustration; he glimpsed her retrieving her cell phone from the pocket of her gray pants suit, about to open it, when he questioned her.

She tried not to let her exasperation show. "Aren't we lost?"

"We aren't lost," Lassiter snapped. The Crown Vic's two front wheels had just crossed into the middle of a blind intersection. He jerked his head in her direction and it was only out of reflex that she looked towards him, their dark sunglasses glaring at each other for a second as if this were an ordinary moment.

A horrible squeal of tires and a revving engine got their attention. Juliet opened her mouth to cry out; Lassiter tapped the brake but only managed a half turn of the wheel out before a dark green 1968 VW Beetle doing at least forty mph rammed the Crown Vic, T-boning the red vehicle at the driver's side, spinning it a full 180 as the Beetle pushed their car several feet before halting. The occupants of the Crown Vic had been thrown about, despite their seatbelts and the deployed airbags pressing them against their seats, because the car had rocked, teetering on two wheels before dropping, earthbound, with a thud. Juliet's scream was that of a silent film star, her arms flailing as metal crushed metal, the aggressor seemingly the victor though she couldn't see what the damage had been from here. Lassiter's hands had been lifted from the steering wheel by the force of impact, though he'd wanted something to hold onto. His stray fingers had grasped the gear shift for dear life; sometime during the spin, he'd lurched the car into park.

Lassiter's head bounced off the driver's side window with a sickening thud, the deployed airbag inadvertently shoving his head and shoulders towards the door. He groaned as a bright yellow pain exploded in his forehead. He tried to speak, but his tongue was thick and dry in his mouth.

Juliet managed a few intelligible words, sounding dazed and shaken. "Carlton, you okay?"

Lassiter tried to mumble a response, but figured his words went unheard. He was trying to reason with the part of his brain that was demanding he state the obvious: _What kind of idiot would hit a police car?_ Instead, he started to fumble with his seat buckle, then the door handle, ignoring the dizzying roar of O'Hara's voice to stop. Once he'd pushed the door open, he wriggled out, almost losing his balance as his brain tried to process the hard metallic color of the late sixties model Beetle, its front end accordioned into driver's side wheel and hood of his car. Both vehicles were smoking and seemed totaled; the white swirl of clouds above his head blurred into grayness. Lassiter yelped when his knees slammed into the pavement, the fresh pain reminding him to wonder why the windows of the Beetle were blacked out; he hadn't been able to make out anybody behind the wheel.

Juliet hadn't wanted to move just yet; the crash had made her skin hum and her teeth chatter as if she'd spent much too long in a cold pool or outside in a chill night without a jacket. Her partner was a man of action, but she had wanted him to stay still because his words had slurred. The glance of him she'd managed through her half closed eyes had told her the five second tale of his likely injury: at most, a concussion, with two jagged streams of blood snaking down his temple from his hairline. She hadn't noticed, until he was gone, that his window had been marred with spiderweb cracks; it made her shiver. It was still going to be hard to convince Lassiter that he'd need to lie down but that he couldn't sleep, not just yet.

She had also hit her head on her door, but her neck had jerked to the left during the spin. As she ran her fingers over her bump, she felt a small patch of wetness which could only be blood. Juliet moaned, pressing her back against the seat as she fumbled with her own buckle. Carlton wasn't in any shape to be wandering about; she would have to be aware that she might have whiplash— _oh_. A thought whispered to her as she shoved open her door. _The other driver. Was the other driver hurt? _She wasn't that badly— and being a police officer, still had a duty. This was now the scene of an accident— had the other driver lost control? It seemed too early in the day to be intoxicated, though she knew time had no bearing on habit. Though, had she imagined the Beetle's "purpose", how the car had bored down upon them without even trying to stop or swerve?

Once outside, she blinked in the sunlight, feeling heavy on her feet. She, like her partner, tried to comprehend the smushed 1968 model of her own car, though hers was newer, seemingly joined at the hood to theirs— a sick thought rumbled in her stomach, but she fought it until it passed. She had to find Lassiter. Juliet approached the Beetle, stumbling forward once but managing to catch herself. Maybe that bump she took was a harder knock than she'd first thought? She froze just before the Beetle's driver's side door when she heard Lassiter's sharp hiss.

"O'Hare."

Juliet jerked her head over her left shoulder, wincing hard as her eyes stung. Already she had forgotten about the whiplash, but she tried to ignore her pain as she saw that Lassiter was on his knees in between the two cars— and he wasn't alone.

She gasped as she fully took in the figure in head to toe black clothing, the build seeming square but thin, the height not more than five foot eight or nine. The figure was standing only about a foot from the Beetle, his left hand clutching a compact gray-brown stun gun with its two metallic prongs charged. The figure was, she realized instantly, going to try to use that on her partner, whose blue eyes had paled; he implored her for assistance. Juliet worked to swallow a growing lump in her throat as she fumbled to unbuckle the holster at her hip; it was possible Lassiter had a serious head injury if he was resorting to minor pleading. She didn't like it that he couldn't get her name out right either.

Juliet yanked her gun out and was in the act of raising it when quick movement to her left caught her eye. She turned towards it, her intention to deal with whatever may be threatening her before she helped Carlton, but the unseen thing shoved a hard, cold metal square against her neck. Juliet was in mid gasp when the electric current ripped through her body. She was singed from her hair to her toenails, her organs protesting as she crumpled into a heap next to her passenger side door.

Lassiter saw the whole thing; a fury threaded through the haze and nausea— O'Hara had just been attacked. He tried only once to gather his long legs underneath him to stand; it wasn't going to work. When he'd last brushed the side of his face, the smallest shards of glass had rubbed off on his fingers— and they had been specked with blood.

Juliet's body was jerking on the ground as if there were minnows beneath her skin that wanted to jump out. She was breathing heavily, her eyes not completely closed. She could make out the minute details of the pavement's makeup, but she couldn't make herself understand why she was staring at it so closely or why her limbs weren't obeying her; not even her lips or eyes would close. She wasn't aware of what was happening, but she could feel something patting down the shell of her body, detaching undesirable accessories, such as her badge, her spare guns, her keys— these things all clattered on the road's surface in a heap in front of her open eyes.

Lassiter wondered vaguely as the figure approached him why neither of them had thought to communicate with their radio before getting out of the car. He knew he must still have his cell phone on him, but he wasn't certain if he'd be able to focus on the buttons, both the seeing and the pressing. To clear his head, he shook it hard and reached into his jacket to retrieve his Glock. Shaking was a very bad idea as it intensified the roaring in his ears, loud enough so he assumed it was a paralyzing, around-the-world heard noise. Though the figure in front of him wasn't reacting to this screeching moan, so he wondered if it were self-contained. As he was struggling to level his Glock, the figure had raised his left arm and was using it as a lead towards his intended victim, closing the small gap between them with ease.

Though he couldn't see everything as clearly as he wanted to, Carlton took aim at his assailant and fired, squeezing off one shot before becoming a slave to the vomit which flew up from his stomach. He bent forward, retching, his long fingers still wrapped around the trigger. He realized he hurled that he hadn't heard the gunshot or experienced the usual kickback (though he was most always braced and was used to the bark of the weapon in his hands), and thought vaguely if he'd imagined firing at all. He couldn't see the right hand of the figure clasp its left shoulder, or the left arm dip to its side.

"He shot me!" a voice squeaked from under the black mask. "I'm— it's gushing here. Shit!" High pitched, but male, Juliet noted, trying to furrow her brow with confusion as she tried to place why the voice seemed familiar. The voice continued to cursing and complaining, but she the more she heard it, the less real sounding it became. She wished she would lose consciousness already— being awake was too painful right now. If she couldn't go to sleep, she was going have to get up, and she didn't think she could physically do that.

Juliet was just getting her wish when a second voice snarled, "Get a grip!" She tried to profile it, or at least glance in its direction but the dark was pulling on eyelashes, and she was going under.

"Hurry up!"

Lassiter pressed back on his heels, releasing his non-dominant hand from his Glock to wipe the stray vomit from his lips. He spit into the pavement, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and trying to focus. _O'Hara. O'Hara needs me. _He had to get up, and he had to help her. It had been a long time since he last heard her voice— long also, since he had watched her collapse. The gun in his hand was taking on an unpleasant weight, but he tried to keep his grip despite how slick it was becoming in his fingers. Lassiter forced his eyes open, trying to get steady in his crouch by leaning on his arm; he couldn't gauge how the assailant had gotten so close so quickly. He couldn't suppress his straggled gasp or flinch when he felt the metal prongs of the stun gun dig into his cheek.

Carlton yelled out thinly as he was thrown onto his back, the level of voltage sizzling through his limbs. His nostrils burned, then wetness dribbled from one or both, he wasn't sure. He'd jarred the back of his head, but that was one of the least of his worries. Lassiter didn't know he was whimpering, or that his fingers and knees were jerking about as if experiencing individual seizures.

"Was that necessary?" the second voice asked sharply. "He had better not be dead."

"He's not dead," the squeaky voice replied with a sniffle. "That was— pay back." The figure knelt down next to Lassiter, patting him down in the same manner as O'Hara, ridding him of his guns, cell phone, keys, badge. It was easy to wriggle the Glock from Lassiter's writhing fingers. The figure removed Lassiter's belt and cut the holster from his shoulders, then patted him down a second time in case there was something missed. "He's clean," the figure called.

"She is too. Get him— we have to go."

Lassiter was, as Juliet had been, still partially conscious after the electroshock. That didn't mean he could move or form any lucid thoughts; it must not have helped that his head had already been burning with pain and dizziness. He wasn't able to register the figure's actions of removing his things, or now, when a handful of shirt was clutched from the back of his neck, and his body jerked and scraped along the pavement. His exposed skin, in the dragging, was getting chaffed, but he couldn't separate those little pains from the rest. Carlton tried more than once to close his eyes, but his pupils kept gazing upwards, at the bright white clouds.

After what seemed a long time had passed, the dragging stopped. A couple muscles in his face released, and he blinked. The minor action took a lot out of him; so did the focus on the thin, gray heap of fabric lying motionless near his head. Carlton couldn't place what it was, not even when it was lifted from the flat plane of the road and a few long yellow tendrils arched towards his face. This time when he blinked, he tried to force his eyes to stay closed, but they wouldn't obey. They sprang open just as he registered the heft of his own body from the ground. He was weightless, but it still ached, then he was dropped onto rough, hard carpeting.

A pale face was turned towards his. An engine rumbled, or it may have been some loud churning in his brain. The ground beneath them shook. Carlton blinked, his eyelids growing heavy. He knew that face. He blinked again, and then his eyes remained closed.

* * *

She'd had time to think of a new logo— and had chosen the two elements that best embodied her own concept on Yin Yang. These elements were both powerful and potent in their own rights— and they each quenched the other. Water changed fire to smoke and ash, but she had also seen burning water, flames spiking high into the sky, changing its properties to vapor. This idea excited her too— that though they were each a dominant element, they each bore a little of the other within them. It should disgust her that she had a little bit of Shawn's essence inside her, but she delighted that he too, bore some of hers within him.

And so, this was the signal she left on Lassiter's broken Crown Vic, stuck against the windshield by one of the black wiper blades. A Yin Yang, one side orange flames encroaching upon swirling blue— with a little circle of each contained within the other. And beneath her new symbol, these words: "Psychic— do you want to play?"


	2. Chapter 1: Your Soul Is Anchored

C**hapter One: Tried To Move Around The Pain, But Your Soul Is Anchored**

**________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer: I do not own references to the song "My Favorite Things" from _The Sound of Music_. I also do not own any references to the movies _The Wizard of Oz_ or _Alien_.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to my reviewers. Your feedback really means so much, and helps give me the fire to write the next chapters. Your reviews are my bliss. Thanks again!

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

Shawn hadn't a clue, not one warning beforehand, that today was _the day_. Not only would the sheer isolation of being singled out by an infamous serial murderess— the wild surreality of having to choose right or watch stranger or mother die before he could solve the riddle, open the right door, play the game by someone else's rules— come rushing back, full force, knee shaking, teeth chattering, tear inducing terror— but this was the start of admitting his exact feelings for a certain blonde, junior detective. The start, only; he wasn't about to say those words aloud— especially when there would be so many other words to say— and he wouldn't be able to get any of them out of his mouth.

* * *

Ample time had passed— even for those regarding a detour (which was unknown to anyone else that these two had been tricked into taking an unnecessary one)— and for two who were so punctual, and if they were not, there was always a call, usually from Juliet who could put a cheerful spin on it or a polite apology for the delay— all while Lassiter grumbled curses in the background.

But there wasn't anything, save dead air, radio silence; not even a crackle on the line. Their phones, both still on and charged, rang simultaneously like crazy, but of course no hands were there to answer, no ears to listen, no mouths to talk.

"Where the hell are they?" Vick snapped to the nearest officers, as if these men and women were responsible for the whereabouts of her Head Detective and his Junior partner.

It wasn't like them— either of them. Lassiter, with O'Hara in tow, was nearly always first on the scene, unless black and whites were the ones who called it in or were in the vicinity just a little faster.

The officers' confused shrugs and quizzical glances only served to fuel Karen's anger, though underneath was the tiniest, unclassified anxiety— just an unpleasant tickle of an itch on her jaw line. Lassiter and O'Hara both took their jobs and duties very seriously, and for them to not be on time—_ to a crime scene_— without a good excuse, without a single word—

Vick's mouth pinched in time with her scrunched forehead; she glanced her watch again and grumbled. They were thirty-two minutes late. _No word, no explanation,_ Vick repeated silently, shaking her head. Another minute passed. If these two were ever irresponsible— which was _never_— Vick might not have been the least surprised, or may have not felt the trickle of worry snake down the nape of her neck and disappear into her suit jacket, sending a ripple of a shudder through her veins. She shook it off; things happened. _But it was so unlike them._ To be on time, they left two hours early— had the patience of steel, on stakeouts, waiting— _well,_ Vick amended slowly, Lassiter didn't always have the patience when it came to wheedling or dawdling suspects, but both he and O'Hara—

For an instant, the scene around her of obvious foul play, the officers interviewing victims and witnesses, went dead cold and still— Vick's heart added one extra beat. Then she was moving along again as if nothing was out of the ordinary, talking to witnesses and barking orders in her detectives' absences.

* * *

Too early to tell that something was off; but too late to stop it. Unknowingly, the plain, gray van holding her two unconscious, injured detectives had nearly a 45 minute head start; direction also unknown. Only remaining: kicked up dirt and dust, shifting foot treads, material possessions and blood— other than the steaming, smoking, twisted metal of the crash, it was hardest to miss the blood. Splatter across the passenger side mirror of the VW Beetle— and inside Lassiter's Crown Vic— a small pool of red on the inside driver's side door, and more on the ground where he'd knelt and from where he'd been dragged from and to; his blood was the most spilled.

Some of the red was easiest to see in the dirt and on the glass, but on the road, they would need a Forensic Light Source for blood detection— and they weren't going to like discovering who it belonged to.

And the note— watching over the ghost scene with its two elemental eyes, the words on the page floating in air. The scene itself wasn't silent— there had been a succession of calls, to both phones, to their radio in the car— the anger not yet up to a frantic pace, but some kind of worry was setting in— unnamed emotions— not yet, the sharp spike of fear. Would it even get that far, or would the cops know enough— be that highly trained— to keep their cool, to never panic, to do their jobs and not ever think once what awfulness could be taking place, where their missing detectives were? In what hands, for what purpose?

In _her_ hands— there could only be one purpose.

* * *

"I have to go back to the station," Vick announced abruptly, startling her officers and some of the witnesses who been in mid-sentence or mid-breath. The hard knot in her stomach had doubled as she glanced again at her watch to find an hour had slipped away— so easy to get wrapped up in the pain of others, their stories of the ones who survived— and neither Lassiter nor O'Hara had shown up.

_What if they were in an accident and were seriously injured? _Karen thought for the very first time; later she would be so surprised this was the first thought she considered when she regarded their absences as something beyond their control. _What if they were— dead?_ Karen managed to keep her composure out to the car, but barked that Buzz McNab accompany her back to the station— he idolized the pair, especially Detective Lassiter, (who was often snappish towards the youth, as if he'd forgotten _his_ early days as a bright eyed but slightly bumbling rookie); she hoped McNab might be able to enlighten her as to why her two most responsible and mature detectives were— missing.

McNab had no idea. He, too, had noticed their stark presence was absent— he related it with the undercurrent of disappointment, as if he were just coming to realize his heroes were only human and thus, occasionally fallible. His nervousness only increased her worry.

Vick's mind was still, for now, white knuckling her anger, reprimands and threats of desk duty stirring and whirling, her hopes, she realized slowly and strangely, that these reprimands be delivered with enough force and volume to knock the two of them off their feet. This hope was that she was going to see them again soon, face-to-face— and that they would both be fine—

—The cold had come back to her, so much so that she was tempted to remove her hands from the steering wheel and wrap her arms around herself for warmth. Absently, she dropped one hand and swiped its back across her temple, brushing back some bangs which had been plastered to her forehead with cold sweat.

And this— all this was only the journey— the pre-knowing. Vick felt some atoms of her skin drifting from her outstretched arms towards the roof of the car, but strangely, their "going" didn't make her feel the slightest bit lighter. Instead, the hairs on her arms stood up as if they may have if a ghost— or a black cat— had crossed her path.

"What are we doing, Chief?" Buzz broke into her thoughts. The atoms slammed back into her and she blinked hard, not removing her eyes from the road.

"Lassiter and O'Hara aren't answering their phones or their radio," Vick explained, "so I want to have the GPS in their car and phones tracked. There has to be a reason—" Her fingers shook on the wheel. "There had better be a _damn good reason _they aren't answering." Once she knew their location, she could figure out where they all stood— whether the ground was level or not.

Karen would not allow herself to think anything worse than "car accident" or "unconscious", though she had already let the images of both their corpses lying face up in the morgue, their eyes closed by the coroner forever, creep through. To distract herself, she ordered McNab to talk about them, recent cases he knew they were on, any they had let him help with or assigned to him. This was how she made it back, listening to steady hum of McNab's near baritone. The rhythm almost calmed her.

* * *

Her favorite colors were the deepest reds— the maroon, almost black, of human blood or roses; scarlet, like a humiliated or fervored blush; crimson like Dorothy's movie shoes— though many would claim these were ruby, _she_ knew that shade was just too light; carmine of dyed poppies; vermilion of corn syrup slasher film kills; sangria wine, sweetest taste on summer days, any bitterness masked by citrus; the Tarocco half-blood orange with its juicy, saucy rose madder glass insides; cardinal like the bird's feathers or cerise of raspberries or bruises.

Her birth name, unlike the one tagged to her when her games first began, was more in the family of purples, though she found herself drawn again and again to the shades of red. Without knowing her gender, they had assigned her the name "Yang"— the white, light, masculine element, and had even capped it with a "Mr.", in case anyone out there was confused— _of course_ it was a man. It had to be a man— It still made her laugh after all these years; though she had always taken great pains to disguise her joy when in public by focusing on any given task of her anonymity. It helped; but it hardly mattered, since they were always sniffing out a "him"— an alpha male musk, too confident, too cocky, too just.

Still, she laughed. In spite of the "Mr." before the Yang (and not Yin, the black, the dark, the feminine— after all, it felt wrong to abandon her baptism in the sacrificial blood of her victims to re-annoint herself as "Ms. Yin"), she reveled in her title, and hardly could remember the last time anyone had called her Violet, even when she saw herself in a mirror, even calling herself by that name. Violet. She could, thinking of it now, recall it as her own, but it had been so long. Violet Alyce _blank_— her true surname gone, though surely, they had mentioned it to her, made her answer to it in prison, made her admit that her birth name was Violet Alyce Kawn— like "con" or "cohen" or "caaahan" or "cone"— she shook her head, and that name was gone again.

It wasn't prison or the other prisoners with their tattooed on names that had made her want for her baby name— to get it off the shelf and wipe it clean of dust, brush its mane like a doll— she wanted it to look pretty as a princess by the next time she saw Shawn. And shiny; it would sparkle like white teeth or glitter— it would make him see her differently. Next time they met.

He had no choice.

These two, lying unconscious on the bed, were of much better selection than his mommy— she had been flustered— she!— by her "Yin"'s brilliance— _her_ Shawn's wit and skill— his demand— and sweat and icy horror— and yet, he still matched her, went to her, sat by her. He did play her games so well— even when he added his own rules.

She unclasped her hands from the dreamy posing she'd had them in, pressed against her cheeks, when her accomplice opened the motel's bathroom door and stepped out, wearing the wrinkled clothes he'd pulled from the garbage bag he'd brought. He'd showered, cleaned his own blood from his blond hair and glasses, and patched up the wound— through and through— as best as he could. She had even offered up a generous splash of whiskey, some of which he'd even drank; he'd bit down on a scratchy towel while she worked. "You're going to live," she'd told him after the whiskey stopped hissing.

"Figured— that," he'd said, pulling the towel from his mouth. "Hurts like— bad things, though."

"You were shot," Violet— Yang— had said. "These aren't the whispers of kittens and snow drops melting into summer."

He had been trying still to make sense of her nonsense— before, when he had been the hunter, and she the prey, he had known none of her thoughts but still felt he had pieced the puzzle of her actions together very well. But still he faltered. When he realized the tune she was humming was "My Favorite Things", he understood what she had been trying to say. She had her tender moments— certainly not the ones she had reserved over the whole of her lifetime for _the one_— Shawn Spencer, in this case— but he appreciated the soft way she spoke to him, and her admiration— whether genuine or merely falsified— for _him_, Mary Lightly, Yin Yang Killer Star Profiler. Dare he even say she was giddy when she learned his name, the first time, five months ago, when he'd visited her in prison.

It had taken him a whole month to sort out his feelings. Mary had been disappointed; Yang had changed her own game in the last round, leaving all her victims alive and even waving a white flag— albeit a little bloodstained— for the police. She had gone so easily, treasuring each leer that could be had for Shawn Spencer— though, Mary reasoned, he was not the least bit jealous of Shawn. There was a sliver of sense left that knew, pricking at him every so often like a rose's thorn, that he did not want Yang's dark light of lust-love turned upon him. He, for his part, did not love her back— he was smarter than that. But sometimes he couldn't help but entertain those thoughts. Only in his head, they couldn't hurt anyone.

Mary glanced to his right, his eyes resting on Detective O'Hara, who was facing him, her features slack. Unlike the bastard who had shot him— Mary's eyes narrowed; he knew he wanted more pay back than that ugly black bruise that had sprouted up on Detective Lassiter's cheek— Detective O'Hara hadn't been too badly hurt by crash. Mary had felt sad when Yang had outlined her plans. Detective O'Hara had been nice to him, even given the circumstances then; Mary had said he did not want to be the one who zapped her. Though he said he would gladly slap Detective Lassiter awake when it seemed the charge was wearing off— after all this, Yang would be devastated if he died so soon. Mary couldn't deny her, taking pleasure in her creaky smiles.

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he rounded the bed to where Lassiter lay, a lanky pile of arms and legs, facing the wall. Mary's eyes ran over the still open gash on the head detective's forehead from the accident, the blood dried along his hairline in a sticky rust colored rivulet. Lassiter's breathing was labored, unlike Juliet's, which was silent. Mary frowned. He found he was a bit squeamish now that he was standing front of Lassiter without a weapon— in spite of Lassiter's unconscious state and the fact that his wrists were handcuffed behind his back as well as secured to Juliet's. It was best to get this started, just in case the bastard did have a concussion. Mary slapped him, the first sound loud in the room. Yang flipped the rabbit-eared TV set on, turning up the volume so her partner could continue with some ease. Instead of pretending to watch TV, she gazed over them, focusing on Juliet's soft, youthful face until she heard Lassiter's baleful groan.

She batted her eyes at Mary but he only shook his head; code for no, Lassiter hadn't opened his eyes. She sighed. She would much rather not have to find and abduct and kill a doctor— but if she had to, she would. This game was much too important for any snags.

* * *

They weren't prepared, at least Vick knew she wasn't, and judging by the sidelong glance she grabbed from McNab's pale face, he wasn't either. Anticipating injuries, Vick had called the paramedics; an ambulance followed three police cars to the scene that Vick had had their GPS's tracked to. They were all out of their vehicles quickly, but stood like statues while their eyes surveyed what they were actually looking at. Chief Vick was first to move, sweeping a circle around the whole scene, looking for survivors, looking for signs of life.

_Where is the other driver? Has this person been injured? Was this person at fault?_ It would take her CSU team hours to go over this scene as is, and much more time to take back any evidence to their lab for further analysis. Vick longed for answers right now, and had to hold her tongue to demand they be delivered to her; her officers were just as clueless as she.

When Buzz McNab gasped, obviously horrified, Vick barely kept herself from sprinting towards him. When she reached him, he could only jab with his meaty digit towards the windshield. While they stared, statues again, the others came alive and began to do their jobs, the forensic team working carefully.

"It's not— it's not— possible," Vick finally got out in a whisper. The words were glaring at her, sharp as blades.

"The symbol is different," Buzz managed, finding his voice. "Could it be a— a copycat?"

Karen grabbed McNab's arm to steady herself, her nails digging into his skin, mildly surprised her knees were going weak. She hadn't wanted to think that, or even that far ahead— but god, neither of her detectives were here— and not in the vicinity either, as she heard some of her officers call out just now. She tore her eyes from the elemental yin yang and looked over the piles of objects lying on the ground between the two smashed cars. Over there, on the passenger side of the Crown Vic— a cell phone, keys, a gun and a badge. And here, looking down among their feet, more of the same— Vick's breath hitched higher in her throat— that curled strip of black vinyl was Lassiter's holster— and his gun was resting against the driver's side front tire, upside-down.

There was nothing in the world that could make Lassiter willingly give up his gun— or lie still while his holster was cut from him. And their badges— both of the shields on the ground like weighty, ugly trash— what they had earned and where they channeled the source of their pride—

"Oh, my god. Oh, my god," Vick began muttering, her eyes flying between the piles of her detectives' things— and then she paused too long on the note. Fire and water at war with each other, the colors too blaring— hurting her eyes.

_"Psychic— do you want to play?"_

Terrifying enough to consider this the work of a copycat, Vick had to have this confirmed— _because, sweet justice, what if this was the real thing? _

"Their handcuffs and keys are gone," one of her officers told her. "And there's blood in the car— I assume Detective Lassiter was driving?"

"He always does," McNab said before Vick could. Then, licking his lips uncomfortably, "How much?"

The officer motioned them towards the driver's side door, showing them the small pool in the door handle, and the bits of broken glass in the window. Their airbags had deployed, meaning they must have been hit at least 40 mph or more, unable to swerve— it would have had to happened fast for Lassiter not to be able to clear them from its oncoming path. It seemed he had been trying to turn the wheel and had saved them from a head-on crash, but it may have caused more injury to himself in the process. _Oh. My. God_. _What if this—?_ She swept the scene again standing still.

_She's come back, what if she's back?_ Vick asked herself, forcing herself to consider the reality. Her face was burning up; she was unsuccessfully demanding her anger come back, front and center, but it wouldn't listen. Vick pressed a hand across her stomach, willing it to not tumble.

Why couldn't she have found her detectives here, merely unconscious, even with some mild injuries— not that she wished them unnecessary pain, but Vick continued her desperate prayers that they would appear— safe and sound.

The sun overhead them was bright and mocking. It squinted at her and laughed. _This was no accident, _Vick realized slowly— terror creeping blindly up her legs, twisting around her as if she were a trellis; poking at her heart and blooming new buds of fear before she could even blink. She had wanted to keep it at bay until she was certain— but even before then, she found herself having to admit that Lassiter and O'Hara were _not_ about to appear; there were tracks leading away from the fused metal, but only two— and the indication of drag marks in the dirt.

"Lassiter's gun has been fired recently," Officer Callhoun announced, trying to walk Vick through a possible scenario of the trajectory of blood splatter on the Beetle's windshield. There was a shell casing to the left of Lassiter's fallen possessions. He had made an attempt to defend himself, it seemed, but had not been successful. O'Hara's gun was found still in its cocked position; she had also been alert, then, but unable to follow through. Vick found herself looking at the gash in Lassiter's hood where the Beetle had twisted itself into it, red paint chips sunk into the hole and across the dark green front end which was like an ugly, unnatural growth off the driver's side of the Crown Vic. Again, her heart added an extra beat, this time the rush of blood in her ears drowning out all other sounds. The thoughts came with clarity, as often some did when under the influence— the body impaired but the thoughts free to wander.

"They were ambushed," Vick muttered quietly, horrified. _And if that note was really an indication—_ the scenery spun, the loud hum of outer silence droning on again.

"Chief," McNab replied just as quietly, still close, "you don't really think—"

Vick moved her head, not defined as a shake or a nod, just as movement. "I don't want to, god knows. But it's the only possibility that makes sense—" _Though if I ever wished this were some kind of "ordinary" ransom— and not—_ Now she did shake her head hard enough so that it made her dizzy. _I would pay it, somehow, I would find a way,_ she promised,_ but god—_ She yelled for McNab to let go of her when he caught her from sinking to the ground, but for once, he didn't follow orders. Instead, he easily walked her away from the crime scene— _Maybe,_ she thought,_ it wasn't an abduction— just a mistake— they were dazed and had stumbled off— or a motorist had found them and taken them to a hospital—_ She was yelling out that hospitals be called, still trying to wrench McNab's strong arm from her waist.

Vick demanded he let her go or she was going to fire him— when he listened, she noticed instantly that the bottom of her feet were shaking (how was that even possible? likely?) and were slick in her socks and that every other inch of her quiet skin had been disquieted— and she found herself grabbing for Buzz's arm again.

Now it was her turn to wonder over herself; this reaction was so unlike her. It was her job to keep her cool; and she had, last time, when Mr. Yang had resurfaced— but then, even with Shawn threatened, she had maintained professional composure.

But these were _her_ detectives— and this, what may have transpired here, was unacceptable. These two who were more than capable to taking care of and protecting themselves and each other— something had painted them into a corner and taken full advantage to kick while they were down. Someone had done this— copycat or perhaps . . . agents of Yang.

They needed to contact that Yin Yang Killer Profiler— Mary Lightly. He had been a necessary resource and enormous help before. Even if this turned out not to be . . . Karen closed her eyes. Could this mean there was an envelope with a riddle and a stopwatch waiting already at the station? But . . . she was in prison. Six months of official silence after Yang's processing; Shawn Spencer nearly bouncing back to the usual just as quickly, almost as if nothing so serious had happened— At least, he joked and teased the same, flailed in dramatics to contact those deceased who wanted to aid him on cases; though at times, there was the flicker of change in his hazel irises—

Wasn't she? Yang? Wasn't she still in her cell?

The calls of her officers for Lassiter and O'Hara when first arriving on the scene were haunting her. Something— someone— had silenced both of them— because of Shawn Spencer. Not his fault, but still.

_I'll have to tell him— but not until I'm absolutely certain this is what we're dealing with._ _And Mr. Lightly will be able to offer some aid if it is a copycat; otherwise, we have nothing that focused to go on. _Vick loathed even the idea of encountering Ms. Yang in a prison visit, sitting face to face with that sociopath monster with no soul. Accepting help on her detectives' disappearance— again, Vick closed her eyes. If this were true, this written question from the source, and Shawn did not want to "play"— Vick doubled over and was sick in the weeds. Not much came up, some coffee and other liquids, bits of food stuff, but as she stood and wiped her mouth, her misgivings cleared her head.

Whatever— whomever— this was, they as police officers had no choice. A crime had been committed and must be investigated— resolved as quickly as possible. And Shawn— as a police consultant— Vick would threaten him with arrest for obstruction if he refused. Swallowing some sourness, she had a difficult time picturing his refusal when he realized what was at stake. Lassiter and O'Hara were— gone. Karen never thought she would see that day.

* * *

Karen still carried one last useless fantasy— holding onto it even as she glided through the station doors, as her eyes darting round, not seeing any flashes that could be them— she held onto this hope on the way to her office, that inside, Lassiter and O'Hara would be waiting for her, ready to explain. She couldn't stop picturing them without bandages, around their heads or necks, wrists or arms— crutches and casts. Injured yet alive— and right here.

She sighed with childish disappointment at her empty office.

Vick walked to her desk and opened her computer's lid to search her desktop for police contacts. After a few minutes, she located Mary Lightly's number, and picked up her phone.

It was the right number, but there was no answer. She left a message, emotionless and professional, not indicating that anything was wrong but that she needed to speak with him as soon as he got her message, day or night. Karen found she was tempted to call the profiler's number again as soon as she set the receiver on its cradle, but instead, she forced herself to call the Central California Women's Facility Prison, then, after getting on the line with the right departments, forced herself to listen.

As earlier, her anger won out over her dread, though competition was very stiff. "Why was I not notified immediately? This serial killer terrorized—" It took her longer than she imagined to stop yelling and blaming, and when she finally did, even longer for the words to really sink in.

Two days had passed— one whole day where no one knew anything was wrong. Certainly, when the transport didn't arrive, calls were made— but a bad storm had knocked out lines, there had been a fire— there had been an emergency in the prison she was going to— blah blah blah, scenarios that made little sense, and perfect timing, which never happened— and said killer slipped through the cracks. Both guards were dead— murdered, and the van had been dumped into a ravine. Much like Vick had done, the GPS was tracked to said location, and said discoveries were made.

One day, escaped and off the map, the second day, the frenzy had begun. Today was the third day, and still, she was only just finding out. "If anything happens, I will hold your ass personally responsible," Vick snapped into the phone. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have real police work to attend to." She listened for any more useful facts and when none were offered, she hung up the phone.

It was— _oh, god._ It was true. The Yin Yang Killer had gone free, and no doubt she had returned to Santa Barbara— one thing still on her mind.

Her officers and forensics teams returned, a few of them briefing her on some of their findings. A bullet had been found lodged in the trunk of tree behind where the cars had crashed; it was covered with human blood and tissue.

Vick stood up. She didn't want to scare anyone, but she couldn't keep this secret to herself. "Get every officer and detective in this precinct into the conference room," she told her returning officers. "I have a serious announcement and it cannot wait." They went off to do as she asked, except for McNab whom she halted in the doorway. She noticed he looked very pale, and wondered if he, too, had been sick at the crime scene after she had left. Vick explained to him that her suspicions had been confirmed— and that she needed to tell the department now.

"Mr. Yang is back?" Buzz repeated, taking a lumbering step into her office. "It's really him— er, her, Chief?"

Vick waffled; some of it was still up in the air. But it was seeming less and less possible that this was a copycat— except that Yang was not up to her usual tricks. She had— if it _was_ her— abducted two detectives— when she usually chose civilians; cops' attention was part of her act, fanning her flames. But Lassiter, O'Hara, as what? Bait? Bait for the psychic who had played her last time around? There was no waiting riddle here, no stopwatch, no known time ticking away, yet it was.

Would she really come back here? Why not just run to the safe arms of another country? Yang had unfinished business here— that was why she had returned six months ago after hiding out since 1995.

"I need you to go pick up Shawn Spencer and bring him to the station," Vick said somberly. "After I'm finished with this talk, he and I have to have the big one." She sighed. "If I call him and order him to come in, he'll just get spooked."

"But a police escort, Chief?" Buzz prompted, not challenging her but just wondering.

She shook her head. "Don't tell him a damn thing about it. Leave it to me. Just tell him—" Vick was flustered. "Make something up that sounds convincing."

"Can I tell him that Lassiter and O'Hara need him, Chief?" Buzz asked quietly. "I wouldn't give any explanation—"

Vick's eyes crinkled, but neither into a smile or a frown. "Yes," she agreed as equally softly. "I think that should do."

* * *

They were easy enough to find— the first place Buzz tried was the charm— at the Psych office, just walking out the door for a snack, pineapple smoothies or corn dogs or hot fudge sundaes, something all mixed together and gross sounding. They— Shawn, really— insisted he come along, the potential for funness just upped. Buzz declined and then said his piece with his mouth in a tight line. Shawn tried to joke with him, but there was obviously something on the young officer's mind and he couldn't be swayed.

"I've been trying to get Jules on the phone all day," Shawn whined as Gus eyed the back seat of Buzz's black and white. "Do you know why she's been ignoring me?"

"No," Buzz mumbled; it was partially true— he _didn't know._

"If you don't mind, I'll drive my own car over," Gus told McNab, fishing around in his pockets for his keys.

"Oh, so I'll just ride over with Gus," Shawn said, a grin splitting his face.

Buzz shook his head. "The Chief's orders were pretty specific," he said, covering his slip by adding quickly that she and Lassiter had agreed that this was the best course of action.

Shawn was not fooled; his easy smile was vanishing into the sides of his mouth, and his forehead scrunched with the appearance of deep thinking. His fingers cupped towards his temples and he tried to read Buzz's nervousness or worry for what it is was, but Buzz remained tightlipped about the whole thing. "Please get into the car," he asked rather than ordered. "This is pretty important stuff."

"Yeah, how well will it pay?" Gus retorted, though it was hard to see Officer McNab relenting anytime soon. McNab was fidgeting, but there was something on his face that made even Gus wonder what might be going on. Might as well get this over with, whatever it was, so he could get on with his life. This, after all, could be a paying gig. Gus climbed across the back seat, tuning out Shawn's protests with humming. "Just get in the car, dumbass," Gus urged after Shawn's protests continued on the sidewalk.

Buzz vaguely wondered if he pushed Shawn into the car the way he would a suspect if that could be construed as suspicious to the psychic at the least, or an abduction at the worst. He decided he didn't want to keep Vick waiting for much longer. "Shawn, please get in," Buzz said again to the stubborn faced man who had childishly crossed his arms, refusing to go.

"If it's so important, why don't they come to us?" Shawn questioned, trying to force Buzz to hold his eyes.

"Because they can't," Buzz snapped, his angry burst startling both of them. Even Gus, who had been slouched behind the driver's side, sat up straight. Buzz started to apologize but changed his mind. He gripped Shawn's arm and pushed him towards the back seat; likely not the best way to handle things, but he was resolved to do what he had to. The whole time he struggled with Shawn Spencer— who was losing against him— Buzz recalled the frightening scene he and Vick and the others had come upon. With one final shove, the whining psychic was in the back on the car; Buzz slammed the door shut before he could kick out.

"Did Lassie put you up to this?" Shawn snarled through the metal grating. "This mistreatment isn't funny and certainly nothing I would expect from you, Buzz." He seemed to try his damnedest to get Buzz to ever fume with guilt or apologize outright. Buzz was silent.

Shawn bitched the whole way to the station about his rights, but Buzz wasn't hearing a word. All he could think about was the Chief's reaction to the symbol— her stumbling, her need of his stability. Her face laced words; the rest of the officers were barely risking words— too faulty, they would hiss and crackle in the air and sound like a jumble of nonsense. Vick had at least been brave enough to speak, brave enough to almost fall apart. _The rest of them,_ Buzz thought as he turned into the SBPD's parking lot, _were cowards, mentioning only crime scene details, never once uttering the missing detectives' names with familiar worry— there was a coldness; Lassiter or O'Hara could just as easily be any other faceless victim, unknown to them._

Buzz knew well that it was a cop's job to have control, to not be governed by emotions, but even some— just a few in this case— seemed needed. Lassiter would have, had he been there, addressed McNab with a scowl, even though Buzz had remained as emotionless as possible. Buzz shut off the ignition, got out and unlocked the back door on his driver's side. When Gus hopped out, unhelped, Buzz slammed the door and went around to the passenger side to get Shawn, already deciding the psychic was going to need a police escort to "help" him get inside all right. Gus was frozen outside the car, both curious and unnerved by McNab's strange behavior.

In the car, it had been hard to concrete on his own thoughts over Shawn's snarky rants, but now Gus was starting to wonder just what lay ahead of them, up those steps and through those doors. Neither Lassiter nor Juliet— nor Vick, for that matter, had ever sent a police car to retrieve them— for what? For a potential case? And Buzz's grip on Shawn's arm was none too friendly— his dark brown eyes somber, his eyebrows sloped down and pinched. Gus followed behind the pair, one yanking, the other struggling, as if he were a toy on wheels, being pulled along by a string. Gus was certain Shawn didn't see any of the serious faces they passed in the hallways; he lost a little of his breath and wanted nothing more than to turn around and run— and they hadn't even seen the wizard yet. But his car was still at the Psych office, and he wasn't sure if leaving Shawn here alone was the best idea. At this rate, Shawn was going to end up spending the night in jail.

When they got to Vick's office, Buzz released Shawn's arm, but stood in the doorway to block any escape attempt. Vick was at her desk, tiny and compact in her chair. She wasn't looking at them, not right away. Gus stood off to the right, throwing glances at Shawn's frowning face every now and then. "There you are," Vick mumbled distractedly just as Shawn blurted loudly, "I don't appreciate being manhandled all the way here when I'm probably not getting paid for this anyway."

Karen didn't seem to hear him. Using the front of her desk for stability, she pushed to her feet. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster," she said formally, nodding at them. "I have some news that cannot wait."

Shawn glanced around the room for the first time since being dragged in, noticing Lassie and Jules were not present. He questioned her about it; again, she didn't seem to hear him. So he tried again.

"_Officer Jerkface-Nab here_," Shawn thumbed angrily over his shoulder at the man in the doorway, "told me Lassie and Jules needed me for something. But they aren't even here."

"No," Vick answered him finally, "they aren't here."

For all his observational skills, Shawn didn't pick up on how hushed her tone was, the threat of pain or anxiety just below its surface. He waited, running a hand through his perfectly gelled and always stunning hair, but the Chief was not elaborating. He flicked a look of impatience towards Gus, who shrugged.

"Excuse me, Chief Vick," Gus said, getting her attention. "Where are Detective Lassiter and Detective O'Hara? Officer McNab said— um—" Gus turned his head, staring at McNab's impassible expression. Buzz hadn't actually told them much. Gus licked his lips. "What's going on here?"

Gus's tone gave Shawn pause; it was the very first time he considered the idea of something being wrong. Shawn took a couple steps further into the room. He dusted off his should-be-trademarked psychic act and performed a few tricks for her after giving the usual spiel of "I'm sensing a dark force at work here." But other than guessing it had something to do with Lassiter and Juliet, Shawn's hands came up empty. He just couldn't see the big picture.

Vick suddenly found her voice, beginning to speak about the earlier crime scene and Lassiter and O'Hara's failure to show. She didn't get very far because Shawn cut in with, "Well, where are they?" Unease had crept into his stomach, souring his snacking appetite. He felt he had to keep her from speaking, because something horrible was going to pop out of her mouth if she continued— like an alien or a death ray.

This was the question Vick avoided like the plague, choosing instead to play the only face card in her hand. She motioned Shawn forward and slid a white piece of paper across the desk's surface towards him. For a few seconds, Shawn's feet were glued to the floor, but his eyes and mind saw it all too quickly. He cursed himself for his quick mind; he would have wished to see only the whiteness for a even one half second longer, but it was hard to miss the fire-water yin yang symbol and the typewriter style bold faced print just below.

He blanched, not wanting to read the words but reading them, staring unwillingly at this "request". His knees felt weak. "Mom," he muttered, sounding like a child scared by a shadow.

"No, Shawn," Vick spoke up firmly. "It's not your mother— we've checked already and she's fine." This was the time to tell him, while he was stunned and silent, so she explained what she had learned about Mr. Yang's escape. It was hard to tell if Shawn was really hearing her or just thinking endlessly about the past.

_Yang, _the_ Yang, the serial psycho-killer, the abductor— she was back? Killed two guards— wrecked a van— and was gone— gone—? _"What else— what else has she done?" Shawn blurted out. His high pitched voice cracked. "What else has she done?"


	3. Chapter 2: I've Got To Play My Hand

**Chapter Two: I've Got To Play My Hand, What The Winner Don't Know, The Gambler Understands**

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I do not own references to_ Silence of the Lambs_.

Minor references to Season One's _Spellingg Bee_, Season Two's _Bounty Hunters_ and Season Three's _Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing._

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

When she woke, it was with a big smile on her face— she was giddy and proud in her realization of what she had accomplished. She turned over on the bed, shrugging off the blanket she had felt Mary drape across her— he hadn't pushed her to lie down, but had addressed softly, as if concerned for her health, to rest. Violet's smile went even wider as her eyes fell upon the face of one of her victims just waking, eyelids just opening, pupils adjusting, then an almost frantic darting to make sense of where she was—

_Oh,_ Violet thought, _this is just delightful, so much more than I could have ever hoped for._

Mary watched Yang wake up in the way of an infant, her fists tightly pulled against her chest, yawning with anticipation of having every need and want immediately met. He felt safer when she was awake, though both detectives had been bound— with Detective Lassiter, the one most likely to take him out with a single fist, having succumbed to a bout of shivering, still unconscious— Mary didn't like being the only one awake. Should they move, he could easily lay his hands on a stun gun and zap, but he had to take into account that they were all holed up in a motel, a dingy, mostly vacant one, but still.

Much like the whole process, Yang savored catching her reflection in her victims' eyes as they first awoke— wondering just who could have done this and why could it have been done, as well as the obvious, "Where am I? What's going on? How I am going to get out of this?" So many questions mixed with fear, all in one flash. Violet almost laughed now, thinking back. This, this pair of baby blues looking back with fresh horror was a sight to be relished, her sweetest victory— this was Shawn Spencer's near intended; boy and girl who had gone hit and miss, mostly miss, with one another for the better part of three years.

Though, standing up, Yang found herself frowning— the male detective bound to Detective Juliet O'Hara's back was shaking— it posed a problem. Mary had, as she watched, been able to smack him awake, but only for a short time before he lost consciousness again without, she suspected, being able to place either one of them. Her frown deepened— the gash on the side of his head had easily soaked the wad of tissues Mary had pressed against it. This was no good; she'd have to take the risk to find a health care professional— even an overworked resident or vet with a medical bag would do. They both needed to be alive for her game to have any meaning.

Taking only Juliet O'Hara would have been too easy— simplistic, ordinary— and wouldn't teach Shawn a thing. Sure, he would still experience pain and fear of loss— but to have them both was a much sweeter revenge. When the time came, Violet really wanted it to hurt— the kind of pain that destroys, the violence so horrific it cleanses— leaves the slate blank. When that time came, he'd be completely out of fight— and would go with her willingly.

Violet smiled again, lowering her eyes to the pretty blond she'd shocked— both literally, after the accident, and just now, with the presence of her face. Violet hadn't worked to cultivate her special brand of fear; to her, it came naturally, gradually evolving from her given name and face to this oddity she had become— and what of the time in between? And besides that, she had only been a known killer on the loose for the past thirteen years. Sometimes Yang still felt like that little girl, just a teen, in the days before her very first kill. This brought out her laugh, and expectedly, an uncomfortable look for her blond detective.

Juliet O'Hara was still afraid and not yet angry for what had been done to her, her partner, and ultimately, to her potential boyfriend. Again, Yang laughed. This girl before her was but a child. She could never appreciate Shawn Spencer the way _she_ could— and did.

Again, Violet tried on her birth name, standing in front of Mary as if he were a mirror, looking herself over to see if the name was still a good fit, looked good on her too. She modeled it for him, ignoring the struggles of the young detective who wanted to move but couldn't, and the whimpers of her non-understanding. Looking her best for Shawn was all that mattered.

Mary repeated her label tenderly with his own brand of flat emotional expression, affirming that its resurfacing was a good choice. He even told her that it suited her, because such a small flower was still bursting with color, petals symmetrical and opened for appreciation.

She couldn't refrain from asking Mary if he thought Shawn would like it— an indulgence she took knowing it may hurt her companion. If it hurt, Mary didn't show it. It was also wicked, since it could make Juliet O'Hara heartsick; and the detective was unable to protest with the long strip of duct tape across her mouth.

Juliet became aware of her surroundings in the moment her eyes opened— the plain walls and neutral colors of a sparsely decorated motel room, brown curtains drawn, and the woman who was looking into her eyes while sprawled out on a hard looking mattress across from her— and she would have screamed if she could have. Of what she was less sure was the heated, solid presence at her back, and her inability to separate herself from it. It was moving, _breathing_, she realized gradually, and wreaked with the tiniest of shaking.

Her arms pulled and wrapped uncomfortably behind and under her (she was lying on her left side, and her left arm had long ago gone to sleep), Juliet tried to determine with touch why she couldn't move and just who it was— had to be someone, right? A person, another human being sealed into this fate with her. Though her surroundings were clear, and the woman before her— Juliet shuddered, taking in a deep breath through her nose— the most recent past was wavy, hazy. She couldn't, not yet, tease out this idea of this woman's materialization; after all, this woman should be in jail. Juliet tore her eyes away, hating the feeling that the woman was still holding a piece of her, and focused on the person beside her.

Her fingers had been nearly— unconsciously?— entwined with his, and though they had never before taken each other's hands, Juliet began to understand, with a piercing, cold dread, that by their length and clamminess, they were her partner's hands— and that he must have been hurt badly enough . . . car accident, she recalled vaguely— to not be able to control his shivers.

Juliet was disappointed for a moment— he would not be able to rescue her if he had also been caught in the net, but then she realized a guilty relief— they were in this, whatever it was, together. Now that she knew, she let her fingers rest against his and tried to focus on what it was that could be cutting into her wrists. There wasn't, literally, too much room for movement, and with Carlton immobile, she wasn't about to be going anywhere anytime soon. Juliet felt like crying, and whispered her partner's name, forgetting for a moment that her mouth had been taped.

She wished she could see his face; bits and pieces of the accident were returning— after impact, turning her head to left with a trickle of blood running down her temple. Lassiter pale, with bits of disbelief stuck to his eyes, and a gash a couple or a few inches wide stretching across his forehead. How she'd sat still and watched him fumble with the door handle, trying to get the words, "Stay here," to come out of her mouth.

Lassiter was still a weight at her back, his long legs against hers, his head lolled neatly an inch and a half from her own. They were, she discovered, lying on a hard surface that was covered with something thin— okay, if this were a motel room, then they must be lying on a bed, she thought, realizing the worn padding beneath her face must be a pillow.

Because Lassiter was not responding, Juliet let her fingers slip closer to his— both for self-assurance and to let him know, when he awoke, that she was there. Though, she found herself embarrassed by their proximity; it was stupid, because it did not change her feelings towards him, and when he woke, he would likely be just as embarrassed that it seemed they were unable to pull apart from one another. _When he wakes._ Juliet breathed through her nose, waiting. This was all she could do.

* * *

She was here. Here, in Santa Barbara again, not secured safely from innocent people, her unwitting potential victims— sometimes practical strangers to her targets. Not wrapped up in a starched, hopefully very uncomfortable straight jacket, complete with _Silence of the Lambs_ Hannibal Letcher face mask and all. Shawn stared at the message, the chill under his skin. _"Psychic— do you want to play?" _

Vick, who was usually so forthcoming, was not hurrying this along. A part of him wished, like the ripping off of a band aid, that she would just say it, get the words out, so he could know exactly what he was dealing with here.

There was a victim— some unsuspecting innocent, someone who may or may not be close to him, someone he may know or someone he just met today— Shawn's mind raced, trying to picture all the people he had come in contact with throughout the day, even people he only exchanged a few words with, or a smile. If she was here and it was true, she had taken someone— but, where was her riddle? Her stopwatch? The urgency that lives were in a balance, the stakes very high—? Shawn found himself staring at the Chief expectantly, and still, she was hesitating.

"Mr. Spencer, perhaps you'd like to— you should sit." Shawn raised an eyebrow as Vick changed her mind and tone halfway through her sentence. It was an insistence that he take her advice, lest the news should make him weak— or weaker— but he shook his head. Vick implored Gus to reign in this friend with a long, thin look, as if she already knew that Shawn would refuse.

Gust, noting the seriousness of her unspoken plea, reached for Shawn, whose mind was spinning horrible thoughts.

_Mr. Yang was back? The Mr. Yang? _He couldn't stop these thoughts from involuntarily flashed back to their much too close proximity, her breathy words as if she had been waiting all her life to flirt with the hottest boy in high school— _"I want you to like me, Shawn." _The way she looked him over, as if dissecting him with her eyes. _"I need you to like me, because we're going to be working together again." _Even now, even here, in the relative safety of Vick's office, the pit of Shawn's stomach lurched upward, as if in want of making the desired and painful journey up his esophagus and onto the floor in front of Vick's desk. It didn't, though Shawn thought it had little to do with his pressing his fingers against his lips as if he could stop its flow. No, it seemed to be waiting for the real show— after all, there was something very obvious that he wasn't being told; any other time he would have noticed it immediately. Was he not— looking in the right spot? Or had he already seen it but refused to recognize it for what it was?

Shawn's eyes widened, and he shook off Gus's approach by a mile, throwing his friend an angry look not meant for Gus. Gus knew that. He dropped his arms to his side, then crossed them, offering a glance that was like a shrug to Vick; he'd tried.

Karen nodded once, knowing already that it would have been unlikely to work. After all, Shawn had already gone head to twisted head with this killer, and by some means, by either good graces or by something holding out, had spared the lives of all involved. He had thought— hoped, dreamt, wished, prayed— that it was all over— hell, so had she. For every killer like Mr. Yang bundled off to prison, there were at least three or four more waiting to replace her, to be worse than her acts.

Shawn tried to think this through; what was it that he wasn't seeing clearly? No one was speaking; he'd checked his ears twice to make sure they hadn't been clogged up by panic; there was some relief that his mother wasn't the target. He forced out the next question, though he knew as he said his father's name that it wouldn't be right. What was happening, it was something else— but this wasn't, it seemed, the Mr. Yang they'd known, which was dreadfully puzzling. This Yang didn't want Spencer blood relations, or relative strangers— Shawn had already asked. It wasn't Uncle Jack either; it wasn't a valet or a shop clerk; it wasn't any of Shawn's and Gus's previous clients. He hated this, this guessing game, this tight lipped Vick— all which, he suspected was a mere prelude to the real game in question.

In the roaring silence of anticipation, Shawn's eyes swept the office, taking in its figures like pawns on a chessboard. But two major players were missing, and it didn't make sense for them not to be here. _But, but, they aren't here because they're already out investigating, weighing their options tirelessly until they've recaptured her. Certainly they wouldn't hesitate, or feel a need to wait for him— _Shawn's mouth dried. He glanced up in time to see Vick's mouth open for speech, and fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears and drone out Vick's voice with a juvenile "La la la, I can't hear you."

Karen inhaled a shaky breath and blew it out. She didn't know what she was waiting for; after all, it was going to hurt Shawn either way. And if he hadn't foreseen the danger, then he had to be clued in. She wished they had been able to get him to sit; he was a grown man, despite the way he often acted in public. "Mr. Spencer, we found this note on Detective Lassiter's car, held to the windshield by one of the blades." She launched into the abbreviated version of her worry at Lassiter and O'Hara never making the crime scene, tracing the Crown Victoria's GPS to the semi-dirt, semi-paved road, and then what she and her officers had found once they arrived. She spared him unnecessary details, knowing they would be important later but likely unable to be processed now. She considered taking him to the scene of the crime— how she despised that, as well as her unhelpful fantasies that her two detectives would be waiting for her in her office when she returned from _their_ crime scene— so he could get a feel for what he was up against, as well as maybe procure for the ether the state of mind of her detectives and where they may have been taken.

"It appears," Vick barreled on, pretending she didn't see how white Shawn's skin had turned, "that the accident was deliberate and the perpetrator took full advantage of their injuries, however minor or serious, into concern to overpower them. Partial footprints in the dirt, where there are two sets of drag marks, suggest two assailants were present."

She hadn't come right out and said it, not yet. Karen was surprised when Guster's voice broke into the second's silence following one of her pauses. "Chief Vick, what exactly are you saying?" From his vibrato, Karen suspected Gus already knew, but was also telling her, as if he could read Shawn's thoughts, that Shawn wasn't getting it.

Shawn cut in, as if hadn't heard what she had just said a few seconds ago, as if his mind were stuck still on the scene of the car accident. It plagued her as he spoke, his voice high pitched again and rapidly fraying, that he wasn't going to be able to handle this "game" if he couldn't even handle these introductions. Her anger streaked through the middle of her worry; she needed him, now more than ever, to be as confident and suave in playing the criminal's game— lives of her detectives, lives she was responsible for, depended on it.

Shawn had flung himself around to head out the door after demanding why Vick hadn't told them that Jules and Lassie had simply been taken to the hospital. He made himself be angry at being denied that information earlier, and willed his thoughts from straying to a possible fact that either of them could be in the morgue, and not just visiting. He couldn't picture them dead, he wouldn't. He wouldn't.

Gus hadn't moved, and it wasn't just because Buzz was still blocking the doorway. "Shawn," he murmured at the same time Vick said, "They're not at the hospital, Shawn." Her tone was much harsher; it made Gus flinch. Vick had risen from her chair and seemed to accept that she had to say this to Shawn's back. "Lassiter and O'Hara have been abducted. Mr. Yang has them both."

He froze, almost in a literal sense; he felt as if his insides had physically iced over— every muscle tight, skin gone white as snow, blood frozen and never to regain its flow. He shuddered, scarcely aware that his heart had not literally stopped beating; the breath that hushed from his lips he swore he could almost see.

Shawn still stood with his back turned to Vick, facing Buzz but not looking at the young officer's face. "Jule—" he muttered, her name uttered slowly and enunciated as "jewel"— his precious— no, _a_ precious, very precious gem that had been stolen. _Jules, Lassie— really? Those two?_ They were the very last people Shawn would ever think of as a kidnapper's target. More than capable of handling themselves. In fact, Shawn reflected, he and Gus depended on the detectives too much to get the two of them out of sticky situations— _how? How could this have happened?_

Well, Vick had explained how. Shawn had been there, or was here now, and had been listening, and even though he had wanted to tune out every sentence, every sentence that was now at war with the roiling emotions inside his head. Still in denial, he turned to face Vick.

"Did you hear me?" Vick asked, her patience beginning to snap. When she pounded her desk to get his attention, Gus was the one who jumped. He took a few steps towards Shawn, not really daring to get too close. It wasn't that he couldn't take a punch if Shawn should lash out, but it was frightening him how still Shawn was, as if he had died on the spot. Gus swallowed. He tried some skepticism out loud for Shawn's benefit, keeping watch out of the corner of his eye while he addressed Vick.

Karen sighed, annoyed to have to tiptoe around this until it really sunk in for Shawn. "It's useless in this case to get our hopes up, that they—" She blew out a breath, shaking her head. "Believe me, I know."

_No. No._ _He _couldn't_ have heard that right._ He couldn't have just heard that— he risked a look with raised eyebrows, searching Vick's face for any sign that this was some kind of cruel prank. On her features he only found sadness; around her eyes the pale reminders of spent fear and in her eyes the urgency that he'd expected Yang would taunt him with. _Was it true?_ Had he just really heard the word "abducted" in the same sentence as the names of Juliet O'Hara and Carlton Lassiter, as in that, instead of the two detectives working a case involving an abduction, _they_ were the ones who were— ?

"Kidnapped?" Shawn said softly. It was unreal. He heard Gus protest, saying the words with hard disbelief that he could only say over and over to himself. _Them? How? Those two? Abducted, really? Yang had both of them? _"Besides this note, is there proof?" Shawn's voice was scratchy, as if he'd been yelling, or crying, though he hadn't done either, yet.

Vick sighed. "No. We have this and the scene of the accident to go on only."

Okay. So maybe there was a chance. And maybe, just maybe— Shawn hated himself for this thought, but hoped that if he had to choose it, he would— that if they had been kidnapped, it wasn't by Yang. This, of course, didn't make the kidnapping scenario any less frightening, but it was almost too much to bear to really consider the possibility of a serial killer apparently obsessed with him, at least as her latest fling or toy, one who had already abducted and threatened to kill his mother—

Shawn's hands subconsciously went to his temple; there was a pressure starting at the back of his neck that had begun as an obnoxious roar in his ears— crush of ocean, call of a panther, a demon's laughter. It was less that he was feeling faint, but a part of him wondered why he hadn't considered Vick's advice to sit more carefully.

His mind reeled in tandem with his body, though he wasn't aware that he was physically on the move. _Jules. Juliet. _Certainly pretty enough to be reminiscent of a damsel in distress, but the occasions where she actually resembled one were few and far between. Even on their very first meeting, he'd made her for a cop, and therefore put her in a position to likely save his ass from time to time. Juliet O'Hara was not synonymous with "helpless", nor for that matter, was Carlton Lassiter. _They're tough, fearless heroes,_ Shawn thought, latent awe for their work as police detectives appearing at the oddest moment. It was just unreal.

Shawn wasn't aware that he'd pitched backwards, involuntarily boneless, until he felt a rather muscular, solid wall behind him, gripping the tops of his shoulders. The wall breathed evenly, though the heart of the wall was racing at a speed of at least three extra beats per every few seconds. _Or maybe this was his own heart?_ Shawn mused. He glanced over his right shoulder, taking in the black of an officer's uniform, mildly surprised to see that Buzz McNab had stepped up to catch him. Buzz was keeping him from shaking himself to the floor; Shawn hadn't even realized that he was already that far gone. He flashed back to the young officer's uncharacteristic roughness and realized slowly that Buzz had already known what Vick had just told him and Gus, and had reacted to Shawn's carelessness with a furious protection Buzz reserved for his heroes. Lassiter was one of his heroes, and Juliet couldn't be that far behind; Buzz wasn't the type to have hang ups about women becoming detectives as some of the older generations still seemed to have.

At first, Shawn couldn't picture anyone getting the upper hand when it came to Jules and Lassie, but then he remembered the suspect who had alluded custody by splitting open Juliet's forehead, and former Detective Drimmer, who had relatively easily lured Lassiter into a trap. But those circumstances had been different, right? And trying to picture himself or Gus in a situation of an ambush, trying to fight their way out— another horrible thought struck him. To be overpowered, especially if it really was Yang who'd done it, Shawn figured they would have had to be injured pretty badly in the accident. Yang was a petite woman probably not taller than 5'7", if that, and even if her accomplice was— still, she could be deceptively strong. Shawn reflected that it must have taken more than just a press of chloroform across his mother's face to knock her out.

Shawn's stomach pitched again and he was certain he was going to throw up, but even the thought of puking required too much effort. Shawn was already so lightheaded that the office looked hazy, the voices around him distorted. He fought to come back, taking in deep breaths through his nose while letting Buzz walk him to a chair in front of Vick's desk.

This was not the time to fall apart; this was only the beginning. If Juliet and Lassiter really were— then they would be counting on—_ depending_— on him to figure this out and find them. Shawn rationalized that they would, whether given a chance or not, try to make a break for it, but if worse came to worse, he would have to, for once, be their hero. It was a thought so strange that it made him laugh out loud.

They were all very discomfited when Shawn started to laugh. It was humorless of course, and chock-full of pain; Vick hoped that he was only doing it to get it out of his system, a release so he could give his full attention to whatever lay ahead.

Gus, who seemed weirded out by Shawn's behavior, asked suddenly if that Mr. Yang profiler could help them. Despite his quirks and wimpy hand shakes, he had been quite brilliant and seemed to know Yang's routine inside and out after thirteen years of study on the psycho's dealings. "You know, Wet-Noodly-Hand-Shake Guy," Gus said, throwing a look to Shawn in hopes of bringing out some relief, and to remind his best friend that he would always be sticking by his side. "The one that Shawn thought was Mr. Yang."

Shawn nodded, barely stifling another laugh. He was looking intently at the front of Vick's desk. The glass fish, with its open maw and red and blue specks was daring him to pick it up, but he could only stare back, not daring to stretch out his fingers. Before, when Buzz had plunked him down, he'd noticed how much his hands were shaking and _they just wouldn't stop._ He'd even asked nicely.

Vick raised an eyebrow. "Mary Lightly?" she asked with a sigh. "Yes, we've already attempted to contact him. He's not answering his phones." She raised a hand before Gus could say anything. "And I have sent some officers to his residence to speak to him in person."

Gus frowned. It seemed odd to him that this Mary, oh-so-devoted to the pursuit of Mr. Yang, the same who had been blankly unsure of what to do with his life now that she had been captured, was not able to sniff trouble a mile away, and had not contacted the police immediately, rather than the other way around. He decided to let it go. He licked his lips and asked an obvious question, one which Vick and the others must have already asked at least 100 times by now. "Why would she go after the police? How much sense does that really make?" Though as he uttered those last words about sense, he realized how stupid they were. If Mary Lightly were here, he may have been able to explain her reasoning; or would he have uttered the same as Gus, that it would be too unlike her?

"Is it a copycat?" Shawn asked, his voice dull. "The yin yang is different."

Vick stole a glance at Buzz. After a moment, he nodded and left. "We have considered that as a possibility, but it's more than likely we are dealing with the real thing."

_But Lassie, but Jules?_ Shawn was at an impasse; he was amazed that he'd managed to ask about a copycat— maybe there was hope of coming out of his shock. "Is there a riddle, a stopwatch?" Shawn sat forward, pressing his palms together and touching his pointer fingers against his lips. It wasn't exactly his "game on" face, but Vick found she was somewhat relieved that he hadn't launched himself out of her office for the station's doors already.

"No, just the note," Karen repeated, her eyes finding Gus's mouth agape.

"Then how are we supposed to—" Gus began, resting a hand reassuringly on Shawn's shoulder. He found it unnerving that Chief Vick looked hesitant; that couldn't be a good sign. Gus was waiting for her to say something; Shawn just waiting as if frozen in time, when a sudden commotion in the hall drew their attention.

"Chief! Chief!" Dobson yelled from outside her door. There was a rush of noise, as if everyone in the station were talking at once.

Karen hurried around her desk, motioning for Shawn and Gus to follow. Shawn found himself curious, a stupid relief almost flooding him— what if Jules and Lassie were out there, and they were okay? He jumped to his feet, Gus on his heels. They chased Vick down the hallway, almost knocking her over when she dead stopped just before the station's back doors.

Gus gasped, and then poked Shawn as if he were looking somewhere else. The Chief was barking orders, and even with officers moving quickly to follow them, they weren't moving fast enough to sand away the image burned into Shawn's and Gus's brains. Buzz was on scene, this time supporting a man who wore the white coat of a doctor, a few streaks of red staining it under a pocket. His face was obscured by long strips of silver duct tape wrapped around his head, across his eyes and mouth. His arms had been bent up and taped to his sides in front of him, and taped to his hands was a digital camera.

Around his neck, a neat little sign had been hung, the "O's" in all the words accentuated by mini fire-water yin yangs.

As Shawn read it silently, he heard someone scream.

_A thousand pictures are worth one word. Play?_


	4. Chapter 3: My Blood Ran Cold

**Chapter Three: My Blood Ran Cold, Then I Heard From Far Away A Lullaby **

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don't own references to Doogie Howser.

Author's Note: Thanks for your patience and continued support; I've been out of sorts lately. (I hope the chapter length makes up for some of the wait time.) As always, I greatly appreciate reviews and feedback. I researched some, but also kind of fudged some of the medical details, just to let you know. And if you feel the need to criticize, please be constructive. I'm an aspiring author like many of the rest of you, and thus am very cut into by unnecessary negativity. Special thanks to all of you authors out there who inspire me. :) Many, many thanks.

Mild spoilers/ references to Season Three's _Tuesday the 17th_ and _Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing._

***This chapter makes some minor references to my story "Ask For Another Day", as soon I will be introducing a character from that story into this one (as requested). It isn't required to read that one first, but just be aware of these references. Thank you. ***

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

When he woke, it was with fireballs burning behind his eyes, with tiny pains all over his face adding up fast— it was going to cost him. Carlton moved his jaw, regarding the few pops coming from inside. There was a human hand on his face, pressing two of its fingers along his jaw, then his neck. Checking for a pulse. A low groan in his throat. The back of his neck ached, spiking pain into his shoulders and down the back of his legs, and the top of his head and the side of his face both bore the sensation of being ripped clean off.

His muscles tightened tighter than they were, and unknowingly, he held his breath. It wasn't that bad; it was going to pass. Carlton tumbled through some fears, feeling some escape in the sweat excreting from his pores.

He was promptly startled to find that something close was still breathing, something not him. At his back. He couldn't remember how he'd come to be here, in this place, wherever he was. When something pinched his skin, he opened his eyes in a flash.

The face above his was young, pale— anxious. And unfamiliar. "You'll be fine," the kid's soft voice lied. "You'll both be fine."

He was right— just the simple act of opening his eyes hurt; Lassiter was groggy as if he'd only slept a little or had slept too long. _Why? Why was I sleeping? _he wondered, squinting his eyes at the face, only to receive a tiny sting of a slap. He frowned, feeling confusion more than anger. "Don't go back to sleep," the kid's lips whispered. The kid slid his eyes to the right, glancing at a space Lassiter couldn't see. His patience started to slip when realized he couldn't turn his head very far. Or move his arms. . . . When he tugged, a muffled squeak answered. But what question had he been asking? The wall in front of him spinning, blurring its white.

Carlton woke again to a hand gripping his chin, firmly shaking his head. He coughed, another low sound, and then liquid flooded his tongue. He spit, his limbs loose, and the liquid slid onto the floor. "Look, I did the best I could," the kid was whispering, patting at Lassiter's forehead until he winced. "It should hold. Don't make your girlfriend worry, okay?" Lassiter couldn't fathom what this stranger was saying.

He was lost trying to make out his surroundings, and wasn't sure what to do since he couldn't move his arms; his right arm was prickling with numbness— _must be lying on it,_ he thought fuzzily, trying to keep to the kid's advice and keep his eyes open. Awake. So, since he couldn't move, Lassiter sorted through his memories, while trying to reconcile both the breathing thing at his back and what this mysterious youth had just said.

Lassiter was startled from these musings a few seconds later when the sound of tape being ripped filled up his ear. There was a tiny squeak, a louder version of what he had heard a few minutes ago— Lassiter's heart thudded hard in his chest before it sank. He knew who it was at his back.

His cheeks stung, as if he'd been struck repeatedly; had he? He drifted off for a few moments, shaken awake again by muffled yells, by more sounds of ripping tape. Lassiter couldn't see what was going on; it was on the floor, past the foot of the bed— black shapes in conflict.

It took his brain a few seconds to determine that whatever was happening wasn't happening to him— or to his partner. They were lying still— there must be a reason they were so unwillingly close.

A door opened; a rectangle of brightness hit his eyes, then the bundle of shapes and light disappeared.

* * *

He was awake— this was a step up. Juliet was very surprised that their captors had allowed the young doctor to remove the tape from her mouth. He had looked her over, pulling something from his black bag to dress the small cut on her temple. She'd held his eyes until a splotch of blood on his white coat distracted her. "Is he?" she'd whispered as the young man leaned close to her face.

"I patched him up," the young man replied softly. He nodded, adding, "He's got bright eyes, just like you."

He was pulled away from her shortly after; she had a better vantage point to catch all the action, though she tried not to watch. Instead, she concentrated on Lassiter's breathing, noting that it was deeper than before.

* * *

They were alone for a few minutes, and since they were both awake and not gagged, Juliet tried to make the best of it. "Carlton? Are you all right?"

He grunted behind her, trying to gather up enough saliva to speak. "O'Hare-rah," he mumbled. "What— happened?"

Juliet waited, knowing it wouldn't do her any good to ask again. She bit her lips, struggling with her own fuzzy thoughts. "I haven't come across everything yet," she said, "in my head."

Lassiter grunted again. "I know the feeling." There was an urge that she go on, so she did.

"Do you remember the accident? Your car?" Juliet groaned softly; she had only just recovered this bit: her slow responses, how she had wanted to reach across the seat and grab her partner's arm, but he had been on the move.

"I—" He tried to reach for it, but it had the consistency of a very faded black and white photograph.

"It's okay," Juliet said. "We were in an accident, Carlton. It was a set up."

The back of Lassiter's neck prickled, and he became aware that his hands and fingers were resting close to his partner's— touching them. He tried to move them, feeling an uncomfortable flush of their closeness rush across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. _Great, on top of the pain, this. _Lassiter stopped struggling. "Are we tied up?"

"Handcuffed, I think. I haven't been able to move my arms either."

"Where are we?" Lassiter felt O'Hara shaking her head; her hair tickled his neck. A memory of her on the ground, unconscious, curved into him like a shard of glass— he had been watching, unable to move, as she was lifted away from him. He remembered being hefted from the ground as well, placed somewhere next to her.

"Motel, my guess," Juliet said, sounding tired. "Do you understand what's happened?"

"No," Carlton said, realizing as he spoke that he didn't.

Juliet breathed in and out a few times, then told him. "We've been kidnapped." She stumbled on her breath, not knowing how much it was going frighten her to say it aloud. "After the accident, we were attacked. I sort of remember— um— electrical shock."

Lassiter was floored by her words. Surely, that couldn't be right. Could it? "Us?" he breathed. "We're the ones who— kidnapped?" When he repeated it, he sounded just as worried as she was.

Juliet shifted, unable to go very far. "Are you hurt— I mean, there was a doctor here." She fought to sound neutral.

_Was that who had—?_ "Mm head," Lassiter mumbled, nearly closing his eyes. He heard the young kid's words, and his eyes snapped open. _The kid had thought that—? He and O'Hara were—?_ Lassiter bit his lips, but some minor laughter escaped.

"Carlton?"

O'Hara's high pitched tone froze him. He had gone and worried her, anyway. "I'm okay," he placated. A white lie couldn't hurt, right? He was starting to come to his senses, though it was probably a stupid time; there wasn't much he could do. "Are you?"

"Am I?" Juliet repeated, her surprise evident. She shifted. "I think so."

Lassiter swallowed; his mouth remained dry. "How long have you been awake?"

It was hard to say. She guessed an hour, maybe two or somewhere in between. He felt her move her fingers, then apologize, sounding as embarrassed as he felt about their proximity.

She tried a different approach. "Carlton, I know who it is, who took us."

When she paused, Lassiter broke out his annoyance. This was important; what gave her the right to keep it from him? She fought a battle with a shiver, letting herself shake against him until he fell silent, waiting. "Mr. Yang," she blurted after the shiver. "The Yin Yang serial killer."

"_Mr. Yang?_" He couldn't have heard right. "We arrested her."

"I know we did. But I saw her." Juliet swallowed. "I woke up to find her watching me."

Carlton unsuccessfully fought a shiver of his own. His partner waited, as he had, for it to pass without commenting. He spoke before he was ready, but she also ignored the tremble in his voice. "She did this alone?"

O'Hara moved her head against his, then said, "No. Do you remember that profiler— the Yang expert— who helped us on case six months ago?"

"Vaguely. Why mention"— He gasped. "You're not serious." But Lassiter knew she was. He gritted his teeth. "But us? Why us? Mr. Yang has never abducted cops before— what does she think she has to gain?"

"Carlton, who was it that Yang tagged 'It' last time?" Juliet asked quietly.

Lassiter's frame went rigid, then he cursed furiously. "Spencer? This has to do with Spencer?" He listened as his partner related some of the exchange she'd overheard between Yang and Mary Lightly. It was chilling even to hear second hand, he realized; he couldn't help but interrupt her. "O'Hara, we're going to get out of this. Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do," she said, as natural as breath. He was relieved, even more so when she asked the question and he could answer in his own breath. "Just like always."

"Yeah," Lassiter replied. He thought suddenly of escape, wondering if they could work together to sit up; dizzying musings, even the thought of sitting upright nauseated him. He wondered if O'Hara felt the same. They fell silent, waiting unpleasantly for what might happen next.

The door opened, then closed. They were approached, their blood running cold as the two shadow figures pouncing immediately. Lassiter's thoughts whirled; all of this was still hard to take. O'Hara must feel the same— for now, they shared some fears.

Juliet had no idea what the plans of their captors were, but something shifted in her as she watched them disappear into her blind spot, going for her partner.

"Leave him alone!" Juliet cried out, empowered by an urgent need to protect her injured partner, even in her own helplessness. She heard Lassiter's protests and curse words suddenly muffled as something was shoved into his mouth. She had her back pressed tightly against his, turning her head to get a glimpse of his face. He was fighting, pulling hard on their arms; Juliet felt the cuffs dig sharply into her wrists, but she ignored the pain. The sound of tape being pulled to a length and then torn from the roll filled up the small space. Lassiter's muffled yell distracted Juliet; in her glimpses, she caught one of the masked assailants pressing a long strip of tape across her partner's mouth, pushing the ends of the tape against his hair and around the back of his head. Though she couldn't know for sure, Juliet assumed Lassiter's face had reddened with fury. Another strip came off the roll and again went around Lassiter's already taped up mouth.

"He's hurt, can't you just—" Lassiter heard the angry pleading in O'Hara's voice as the second piece of tape wrapped around his mouth and head. It was tight and he hated the sensation of the stickiness across his skin, preventing him from speaking. He was still dazed, but not as much as before, especially now that he was listening to the same thing happen to O'Hara as had just happened to him, her voice cut off, her anger shut up inside of her head, the tape being pressed to her skin.

Lassiter found this whole thing surreal; still partially stunned, he suspected, to discover that he and his partner had become victims— deliberately attacked by none other than the Yin Yang Killer. _Mr. Yang has us, _Lassiter repeated slowly to himself for the twentieth time. _Mr. Yang and her new accomplice— knew there was something off about that profiler. Maybe the whole lot of them are just bastards by nature, _he generalized.

He settled, ceasing movement when he felt the bony shoulder blades of his partner's digging into his. Just now, he hadn't been thinking about her, and like it or not, they were attached to each other for the time being. He'd wanted to get free from the cuffs, from the tape, knowing it was not possible at the moment but still . . . _had he hurt her?_ Her breathing was rapid; she had too pulled on her set of cuffs and Lassiter had received a small taste of the pain he must have given to her in a larger dose. _What exactly . . . what exactly was Yang planning to do with them?_ This was another grim reminder that Yang, who was supposed to be in maximum security by now, was still a looming threat to Shawn Spencer, with whom she was recently obsessed. This was a message that she was still lurking, that she could take anyone she wanted whenever she wanted to bait him— _but why,_ Lassiter wondered again, _would Yang take _him_ along with O'Hara?_ Despite three years of relentless flirting and nearly six months of uncomfortable tension, O'Hara and Spencer were much closer than he would ever be to the eccentric consultant; Lassiter would never go so far as to use the word "friend" in the same sentence as Spencer, though there was a time that he had. But, they were— hardly more than acquaintances, really. Begrudging colleagues, fine, he could admit that. _But then why—_

Not that Lassiter wished they'd taken O'Hara instead of him, but he found it hard to make sense of the serial murderer's reasoning. Then again, the woman was nuts. But this, what had been done to them already— it was systematic, well planned out. Again, he felt O'Hara's fingers against his; it was a waste of energy to disentangle their fingers. In an odd way, he found her touch remotely comforting, almost assuring, though he would have given anything to not have his body touching hers in such an intimate way. But at least he knew, without a doubt, that he was not the one O'Hara had been secretly falling in love with for the past three years. And even after that stupid idiot had hurt her with his never-ending supply of careless remarks, Lassiter had observed that hers and Spencer's minute flirtations had continued. It was sickening to watch; as Lassiter had begun to know and respect O'Hara more as not just a cop but as a person, he figured she deserved better than anything Spencer had to offer.

But sometimes the heart just made its choice— and there you went, your insides flayed, your soul bared. Lassiter groaned inwardly; he did _not_ want to think of Victoria now, because always when he thought of her it was of writhing red love shot through with bullets, heartache and endless despair— but, hot or cold, that's where his heart still went. He could curse himself all day for being so weak, but it wouldn't matter.

_Great, this was just great,_ Carlton thought. Now he was thinking of Victoria where he suspected O'Hara was thinking of Spencer— with the strange fears of never seeing again people who didn't belong to either of them, who barely had, or never would. At least, in his case, never again.

To distract himself from thinking about his ex and from the trouble he and O'Hara were in, Lassiter let his thoughts drift to his partner, literally at his back for now. In a way, Carlton regarded O'Hara as _his_— not as a possession or a potential romance, but his in the sense of the ease they had become accustomed to through their professional and platonic relationships. _His partner. His friend. His . . . lifeline._ And with her here with him, in this horrible mess, he regarded her as his stability— his rock. His way of making it out alive— of course, this was going to be a together thing, or not at all, he knew. He wouldn't, no matter what, leave her.

He recalled that awful day following the murder accusations against him when he'd been remanded to the back seat of Guster's Yaris, staring out the window with a bored sadness. When he had seen O'Hara walk down the steps of the police station with Detective Drimmer at her heels, he been gripped with horror. _She's mine,_ he had thought. _What's she doing with him?_ What had cut into him most, he realized much later, was he had been piling all his hopes onto his partner to get to the bottom of the accusations— continue to be his backup and support system. But if she had given up on him, then what was the point?

Of course she hadn't given up on him. He knew that the moment she'd smiled at him after entering his apartment with her gun drawn, ready to take out Drimmer if need be. Lassiter let his fingers relax against hers; they were going to get through this. They were partners, stronger as two, and completely trusted the other with their lives.

Juliet felt Carlton's fingers move. She hoped it meant that he was all right, and not that he'd passed out. To test her theory, she squeezed his fingers, and was flooded with relief for the moment when he squeezed back. _We're in this together,_ she thought again. _We're going to get out of this._ She couldn't rationalize all the reasons why, but knowing Carlton was here diminished her fears.

"You're shy, is that it?" Both of them jumped, knocking heads. They glared towards the foot of the bed, where Yang stood, holding a camera at them as if it were a gun. She smiled at them, causing both to look away at the same time. "Well, this isn't the time not to be photogenic. Because now it's picture time!"

Juliet heard Carlton's deeply muffled curse, but it stifled some of her fears and her now racing heart.

Yang tossed a hand carelessly through her dark brown curls. "You know, you're going to give me what I want." She held her smile, flicking her eyes from one to the other. "Did you know, for a fact, that your Chief is _worried sick about you both?_" Her singsong tone caught them both off guard, and they looked towards her at the same time, with the same things flashing through each of their eyes. Yang's look responded with unyielding deadness— and she snapped the first picture.

* * *

Mary encouraged her, though she was a professional, just to act natural. He said it as he said much of his speech, in a serious monotone, expressing all of his emotions flatly. Violet found herself becoming fond of these qualities about him, what others might find too dried out. Though, she was not "others", she knew. She was "Other". Their gloved hands had touched out there, stuffing the man into the trunk.

_He's likes me,_ Violet thought, finding her little girl smile under her mask. _I do thirst for that unrequited puppy love. _

This man in the trunk was nothing to her, providing one service of human super-glue. Well, they would see how well the center would hold. She hadn't taken a kill in . . . she hugged her arms around her chest. How she wanted to kill the messenger! But they should go back in, before they were seen.

In the pictures, Violet imagined the camera's lens was Shawn's eye, and by looking there, by giving a great big smile, appearing flirtatiously coy, she was getting a ripe taste of Shawn Spencer's soul. It was musky, the male sweat of testosterone and determination, a youthful if not still naive man with his head "in the game", with a few riffs of light sweetness (which many others only took as discord): some hints of compassion or pineapple juice.

By the time they were done and Mary had gone, Violet could not stop laughing. For the very first time since she'd chosen him to be her equal— and rival— Violet felt bliss.

* * *

"O'Connell, Chase, get the tape off!" Vick yelled, ignoring Shawn's thin cry. She glanced quickly to see Gus drape an arm around his friend's shoulder; this time, Shawn didn't shrug it away. Someone pressed a pair of black handled scissors into her hand. She handed the pair over to O'Connell, who started to cut the tape from the man's sides.

She took care with the camera, unwinding the tape from the man's fingertips, which she noticed for the first time were gloved and stained red. Her breath caught in her throat but she kept moving. The man grunted.

"He's shaking," Buzz said, nodding at Vick.

"Sir, sir, can you hear me?" Officer Chase asked, identifying herself to the man. "I'm going get this tape off your face, okay?"

The man nodded exaggeratedly, waiting. He seemed to be trying to hold still.

"Does he know this is a police station?" Vick asked.

"Yes, Chief," Buzz said, explaining that he had told the man as soon as he walked through the doors.

"He walked in?" Vick asked, incredulous. But she stopped, glancing at the note again. She turned to Gus, waving him to pull Shawn back, out of the way.

It wasn't fair; Jules and Lassie weren't out here. Or were they? Shawn's eyes swung toward the camera, and he thrust his hands out, ignoring the yells of the surrounding police. Vick had only half freed the camera, but Shawn wasn't thinking about the living mannequin at all. He snatched the camera, pulling hard. A ripping sound and then the man grunted loudly. Chase had just eased the tape off of his eyes and it seemed his very first sight was Shawn clutching the black and silver camera to his chest as if it were something living.

He was young, pale with dark red hair and blue eyes, a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. As soon as they exchanged glances, Shawn felt guilt, something he had suppressed earlier when Vick had told him about Jules and Lassie. "I— I'm sorry," Shawn muttered, holding the eyes of the young man but not really apologizing to him. He felt a tug on his waist. He was vaguely aware of getting chewed out by Vick, and Gus taking the burnt of it, apologizing out loud for Shawn's insensitivity.

And this wasn't fair either— Doogie Howser must know something about— if he was— if he was there— wherever they were.

"Come on, Shawn," Gus said. "They'll let you talk to him, okay? Just not right now."

"Why not?" Shawn whined, seeing Officer Chase hand the sign to Vick. The young resident, a first or year, Shawn noted, was now free of tape. He'd also noticed the blood on his fingers. It made his mind reel enough to allow Gus to guide him back to Vick's office.

"I can't believe it," Shawn muttered once inside Vick's office. "How does this happen? It's Lassie and Jules."

Gus shrugged with a frown. "I know, Shawn. Your guess is as good as mine— I wouldn't have ever thought that they'd—"

"It's really— you think it's really Yang?" Shawn breathed, fumbling around in his pocket for his cell phone. As he was dialing, Gus asked who he was calling.

"My mom," Shawn mumbled, pacing as he waited for the other line to pick up. Gus nodded, knowing Shawn had still been relatively coherent when Vick had said that Madeleine Spencer wasn't the target, this time.

"Mom? M-mom?" Shawn stumbled through his words when his mother picked up. Relief flooded him as he heard her voice. "You're okay? Where are you?"

"Yes, Goose, I'm fine," Madeleine soothed. "I'm in New York, doing some psychological evaluations for the NYPD. You don't have to worry about me— I've got a couple of local police officers playing bodyguard." She sounded a little put off by her baby-sitters. "Are you okay, Shawn? What does that nasty woman want from you this time?"

Shawn felt tears form at the back of his throat; he didn't want to do this again, go through this again. But there wasn't a choice. He swallowed hard, looking at Gus. "I— I don't know."

"Goose?" His mother's worry was there, distant, Shawn thought, because of her distance.

"It's— I'll be fine," Shawn lied, telling her not to worry. "Just do me a favor, okay, Mom?"

"What do you need?"

"Keep in touch with Dad— he worried a lot last time. About you," Shawn added.

"Okay, Goose. Just for you." She sounded like she was smiling, so Shawn thought he should let her go on an upbeat. He mumbled that he loved her and she told him the same, ending the conversation with her appreciation at his calling her.

Gus licked his lips, rubbing a hand across his head. "How's your mom, Shawn?"

Shawn nodded, staring at his phone for a few seconds before realizing Gus had asked a question, not made a statement. "She's fine," he said, looking up. "She said there are local cops watching out for her until this is—"

Gus nodded, also unable to say the word "over"; it had no meaning in this time or space. They barely knew what they were dealing with; they had barely just begun.

"Do you think she's scared, Gus?" Shawn's voice was thin, and he stared at Gus as if his friend had all the answers.

Gus opened his mouth to speak, realizing as his thoughts were half formed that Shawn wasn't asking about Madeleine. "Oh," he mumbled out loud, then shook his head. "No. Juliet's tough, I think she'll be okay. Besides, Lassiter's with her, and even if she's scared, he'll be—"

"What if he's scared too?" Shawn cut in. "He's a bullshitter to say he doesn't get scared."

Gus bit his lip. "They're partners, Shawn. They'll share stuff, fears and courage. Like we do."

Shawn cracked a smile. "With us, isn't it mostly fear?"

Gus shrugged. "Maybe. But we've gotten through a lot, haven't we?"

Shawn nodded. "Hope we can get through this too," he mumbled, dropping his eyes to the floor.

When he heard a reedy voice in the hall, he crept out of the office, following the sound.

"Shawn? Shawn, where are you—?" Gus tried, stepping fast to stay at Shawn's heels.

Shawn pressed a finger against his lips, looking over his shoulder at Gus. "Come on. I think they started the show without me."

* * *

"What's your name?" Vick asked, nodding at her officers to guide the man towards a chair.

"I'm— uhhh," the young man sucked in few breaths before continuing. "Dr. Daniel Williams. I'm in my residency at St. Thomas of the Apostles. I had just left after a triple shift, and haven't slept much in the past two and half days." He shook his head. "I wasn't aware."

"Can you tell us what happened here? Did you see who grabbed you?"

"No— whoever it was, they put a bag over my head from behind as I was unlocking my car. I felt something press into my back," he related, flustered. "I didn't know what it was, a gun or what. It could have been a stick, but I was scared. I heard one of my doors open, and I was pushed into the car. I— I think there was only one person, but whoever it was was holding my head down on the seat and driving the car— so, I don't know."

"Okay," Vick said. "How long did you drive for? An estimate?"

Dr. Williams shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe— uh—" He hesitated a long time, staring at the ceiling and blinking repeatedly as if it would help him remember.

Vick grabbed his shoulder, startling him. "Dr. Williams, don't worry about that right now. What happened after the car stopped?"

He took in some breaths. "The engine turned off, and someone opened the passenger side door and threw something over me, a blanket or a sheet, I couldn't really tell. Then they— uh, someone, pulled me out of the car. Another door opened— like the door to a house, or an apartment, but I think it was a motel room." He paused. "There weren't too many steps from the car to this door, but the other person, the one driving the car, I think he— or— whoever— was following behind us and then I heard it close behind me."

"Was someone still holding onto you?"

The young resident nodded. "Never let go of me."

"Why do you think the driver followed you in?"

"I could hear hitched breathing behind me, like the person was nervous."

"Okay," Vick said, trying to make sense of the doctor's words. "Go on."

"The blanket or whatever it was came off, and then a distorted voice— mechanical, like in a freaking movie—" Dr. Williams ran a hand across his face quickly, his finger tips grazing the sticky areas where the tape had dulled and muted his senses. "The voice says, "There's a patient in this room who needs immediate attention. You will fix him or you will die.'"

_"You will fix him"—_ Karen did her best to process as the doctor spoke, though she recalled the pools of blood that had been pointed out to her in Lassiter's car. Several of her officers took in breaths; they had already been told, but to hear this, that another innocent had been brought in— because Lassiter had been so badly— Karen swallowed her bile. And, it was suddenly striking her that this man had been in the same room as her abducted detectives— as well as with their captors.

After a few gulps of water, Dr. Williams continued. "The voice asked if I understood, and I nodded, not really sure what I would find. The bag was pulled off my head." He described the dull room he'd seen before him; not the captors because he'd only caught a half second of a look: they were both in head-to-toe black with masks that covered their faces and big black sunglasses over their eyes. For a few moments, Dr. Williams related that he'd been so shocked at what he saw before him that he was certain it was some kind of nasty prank.

"Two people, a man and a woman, were lying on their sides on one of the beds, back to back. I wasn't sure, but it looked like they might have been tied up. The woman was awake, staring at me— but she had tape on her mouth. She was trying to watch me work. The man wasn't conscious; they let me go to him right away and I checked his pulse. He had a gash on his forehead, and I noticed on his cheek there was some kind of gray electrical burn."

Vick kept her patience, though she wished that he would talk faster. He used some common doctor words, interspersed with words like "clammy" and "unresponsive", telling her and all of them at his best shaken pace that he'd cleaned the wound on Lassiter's forehead, covered it with antiseptic and managed a few crude stitches on its wider parts, all before sealing it with a bandage.

"They— the people in black didn't talk to me, past, uh, threatening death," Dr. Williams said, "so I didn't know—" He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "After I was finished with the wound, I checked his pulse again, and it was steady, so I did what I could to help him regain consciousness."

Vick motioned for Dobson, instructing he get a picture of Lassiter and O'Hara, so they could be fully certain.

"Did he?" Buzz cut in, dropping his sheepishly when Vick glared in his direction.

The doctor nodded. "Yes, he finally opened his eyes. His breathing was shallow, but I think, uh, for now, he'll be—" He explained that he when he tried to look at the woman, who had a small cut on her forehead, he was pulled away by one of the assailants, whom he thought was slender, maybe as tall as himself, at 5'9" or 5'10".

"Okay, what happened next?" Vick asked, nodding as he related that he'd been forced into a chair, held down, and the duct tape had been applied to his body. "I tried to bolt," he confessed. "They put something to my back and shocked me. It had a paralyzing effect; I couldn't hear anything but distorted sounds, and then I passed out." He fidgeted. "I'm guessing that the mark on the man's face came from whatever voltage they hit me with. Or higher." He'd woken up to the car engine stopping, with specific instructions whispered into his ear.

"In the face?" some of the officers muttered. "They got him in the face?"

"The woman had a similar burn on the back of her neck," the doctor added, remembering. He took in another shaky drink of water.

_That's how, then,_ Vick thought quickly. S_tun guns, they were knocked out by those, overpowered easily in the disorientation to the accident. . . . _Officer Dobson returned with a recent press photograph of Lassiter at a news conference, with O'Hara standing at his side out of respect. Vick nodded appreciatively at Dobson, then handed the picture to the doctor. He had already described them, but she still . . . "Are these the two people you saw in the—"

Dr. Williams took one good look, nodding frantically. "Yes, this is them." He looked at Vick. "They're cops?"

"Detectives," Vick confirmed. Before he could say anymore, she asked Dobson to take his statement, then paused to ask if he knew what was on the camera.

Dr. Williams peered at her blankly. "Was that what was taped to my hands? I'm sorry, I don't know. It was a hard plastic thing in my fingers, that's all I know. I must have been out cold by then."

* * *

"Mr. Spencer, where is the camera you took from the victim?" Vick asked firmly, having recognized that he and Guster were standing against a wall, eavesdropping on the conversation with the young doctor a few minutes into the doctor's story. Shawn had been listening with the small of his back pressed to the wall, bent forward to an uncomfortable squat-like position with his hands on his thighs.

"It's on your desk, Chief Vick," Gus answered, glancing at Shawn who was still bent forward. "I can get it for you." When she shook her head, he leaned back, waiting. After she passed by them, Gus nudged Shawn's ribs until his friend straightened.

"Why is she doing this?" Shawn whispered, turning his head to look in Gus's eyes. "What does she have to gain by grabbing two detectives? Other than that they know me—"

Gus pressed his lips together, not knowing what to say. He was relieved to hear that, according to this young man, Juliet and Lassiter were alive; he knew Shawn was too, but he was still disturbed that Ms. Yang was keeping them somewhere. Gus shuddered, masking it by moving against the wall. He searched for comfort, but wasn't sure if his words could alleviate anything.

* * *

The techs were scrambling, but they found a suitable power cord for the camera, plugging it in to upload the crude snapshots. They discovered partial prints on the camera, and were testing their databases for a match.

The first twenty were random shots of white and off-white, little white squares, then pieces of brown, beige, gray. Walls, furniture, fabrics. One picture was a close up of two tiny silver keys on a tan wooden surface. The next, a brazen shot of the kidnapper's face— she wore a grin, her brown hair combed out of her eyes, which looked almost full on black. In the next, her again, holding the sign that had been hung around the doctor's neck.

There were several blue-orange water-fire Yin Yang symbols, some even with the kidnapper posing with them.

Then, picture after picture— at least fifty, as if the photographer was a voyeur, addicted, unable to stop— of Lassiter and Juliet, bound and gagged, lying back to back on a bed. In these pictures, always both of them, from many different angles. The camera had read their emotions easily— fear, anxiety, anger, hopelessness, helplessness, horror, and more. Both had tried to show nothing; after the thirtieth shot, from one picture to the next, one was stoic while the other fought terror. Or one was almost screaming while the other was blank.

At the end of the photograph set, this video: Ms. Yang, puckering her lips and batting her eyelashes, speaking out. There was no sound, but her lips were easy enough to read. "Shawn, I told you this day would come. I do this all for you." She fluffed her hair. "They are pretty company. Tell me now, who will you choose?" She smiled her broad, toothy grin, then the feed went black.

A tech got Vick on the phone after hitting "Print All". By the time she entered, the disk was burned, and half of the photographs were ready.

"Show me," Vick instructed, and the techs walked her through the pictures, and then the video, pulled up full screen on the computer. She kept in mind that Lassiter and O'Hara were alive— _they're alive._ Though her anger rose to a high level, stabbing her repeatedly with its tiny white hot needles, where she was certain, if she knew their exact location, she would forgo procedure, yank her gun from its holster, and run off like some comic book heroine to bring her two detectives back safely. Home.

The feeling passed, but she was grateful to carry its embers.

There was some panic in Lassiter's eyes, and biting anger in O'Hara's— Vick remembered these emotions in her detectives' eyes from . . . she had prayed she would never witness again, to this caliber, those feelings— but it seemed inevitable; it was still coming back to haunt her. Well, this time, she was directly on board, she would take on Yang with the same sampled rage as she had when gone for Lassiter's stalkers' throats then. Yang had a bad habit of making things too personal.

This time, it was going to cost her. This time, she was going into a box and there would be no coming back. Karen promised herself that time was going to come.

The station was buzzing with chaos; Vick ignored it for now. While she'd waited for the techs to make sense of camera's contents, she had spoken to one of her lesser known but still highly productive detectives, assigning her as lead. With her partner out of town, Karen would need to find a substitute, but for now, McNab could act as stand in. Vick felt she would do well; she was excellent under pressure. Vick found Shawn and Gus still in the hallway, talking in low sounds. "My office," she instructed. They exchanged a glance, warily following.

* * *

Shawn's fight or flight response flooded him; without even thinking it jarred his feet and the little voice that was always screaming, "RUN!" There were cries behind him, and no, he didn't think he knew where he was going, but he was going, he was going—

The station doors open and Henry appeared, startled to see Shawn barreling towards him an unclockable speeds. "Shawn?!" he yelled out, opening his arms wide as if his son were still a child he was about to embrace in a bear hug.

"Stop him!" Karen yelled, setting Henry on further alert.

Henry saw Gus tailing Shawn a few feet behind; usually, Gus was the faster of the two, but it seemed Shawn was running on fire, or fumes. Henry saw that Shawn's face was screwed up as if wanted to dive into some dark corner and sob. It chilled him; part of him wanted to let Shawn slide past, but he couldn't deny his curiosity or Karen's urgency. Plus, there was that very interesting call from his ex-wife about ten minutes ago—

"Hey, kiddo," Henry called, grabbing Shawn in a tight embrace that he'd already foreshadowed. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

This was not his eight year old any longer but a squirming mass of thirty year old muscles, determination and tightly wound emotions. "Let me go, Dad," Shawn cried, trying to break his father's hold.

Shawn was embarrassed that a partial sob had come out after his words; _when had Henry become so strong?_

Gus caught up, followed by Vick and McNab. "What's going on?" Henry mouthed over Shawn's head.

Vick motioned for Henry to bring Shawn towards her office, but he refused to budge until he was let in on the secret. He already knew it had to do with the Yin Yang Killer, but his knowledge, even via his police scanners, only stretched so far.

"Mr. Spencer," Vick said, blowing out a breath, "Mr. Yang has returned to Santa Barbara."

"How? How is that possible?" Henry demanded, unsettled to feel Shawn shaking in his arms. He refused to let go. "That psycho's supposed to be doing hard time."

"She escaped. Killed a couple guards and dumped their bodies in a ravine. We know she has at least one accomplice."

"What does this have to do with Shawn?" Henry said, still unwilling to move.

"She wants me to play," Shawn burst out, startling Henry again, this time so he let go. Shawn fell back out of his arms, the urge to run long gone. Gus stepped up to grab Shawn's arm, just in case he should fall. "She took them, Dad. She's got them."

"Who? Took who?" The group was finally walking, though the answer found Henry as taken aback as the rest of them.

"What? Are you positive?" he shot back, incredulous.

"Yes," Vick confirmed, strain in her voice. "There was a car accident, a trap— they were abducted." It still made her cold to think or utter this; the game was still early, new. It was still shocking, but she could no longer let it show. McNab closed her office door behind them, waiting there while Vick got one of the printed pictures from the camera and handed it to Henry. Shawn and Gus had already seen them.

Lassiter and Juliet were lying on a motel bed, their hands evidently tied together behind their backs, their ankles and knees restrained with plastic ties, and wide strips of silver tape wrapped tightly around their mouths. They were looking at the camera, both wearing a mix of anger and fear in their eyes. He noticed also that they looked injured. "Jesus Christ," Henry muttered, studying the proof of life with disbelief. "When?"

"We estimate they've been missing three to six hours," Buzz said from behind them.

"Yes," Vick agreed, motioning for them to sit. Gus took a seat on the couch, after making certain Shawn had sat down in one of the chairs. Henry took the adjacent seat. Vick nodded over their heads at McNab, who opened the door and left. Henry turned in the chair towards Shawn, who looked as if he'd been repeatedly punched in the stomach or face. He was slumped, and had not made a single quip or said anything remotely inappropriate since Henry had been here; strangely, it made Henry's heart race.

This time, Henry offered no orders to keep Shawn off this case; it was too late. He listened as Vick briefed him, his hand on Shawn's shoulder in what he hoped was s reassuring crush. Shawn made no attempts to remove it.

Vick's office door opened, and a woman wearing a suit with a badge attached to her belt entered. She was in her mid-thirties, her face ironed of emotion. She glanced at the three seated men as she made her way towards Vick's desk.

Karen stood, introducing the woman. "Gentlemen, this is Detective Rosan Alexander. She will be taking the lead in"— Vick swallowed hard, then continued, "in Detectives Lassiter's and O'Hara's absence. She has eight years experience as a major crimes detective and was present in the investigation of Mr. Yang six months prior."

Shawn looked this new detective over, vaguely remembering her face standing in the crowd of many detectives and officers last time around. She was slender with shoulder length carrot colored hair, a pale complexion and striking blue eyes. It wasn't fair, that she had those eyes; both Jules and Lassie had blue— have— eyes. Detective Alexander had her eyes fixed on Shawn, moving them briefly, to address Gus and then Henry with nods before turning back to him.

She hadn't even opened her mouth yet, and Shawn already felt a coldness coming from her, something sterile, as if she knew numbers and paperwork best, rather than any kind of human interaction. Shawn didn't care about fair. Foregoing any manners he may learned, he jerked his eyes from hers and blurted out to Vick, "What about that Perry Lighting guy? Is he coming in?"

_"__Mary Lightly_ is still unreachable," Vick corrected shortly, her eyes now fixed uncomfortably on Shawn's. "He may be out of town. We're seeking alternatives." He relented for once, waiting for her to continue.

Shawn could almost see the face of the young resident in this detective; it was another taunt that they should almost look alike and pierce him with their blue, blue eyes. _Help me, Shawn. Save me. Come on, Spencer, what are you waiting for?_

Shawn twisted in his chair. Before, last time, the heartbeat was his mother's voice, over and over: _I'm counting on you, Goose. _

"Now, we'll need you to watch the video again, Shawn, and sift through the pictures. And decipher the words from her most recent written sign. We have to find out what Yang's riddles mean A.S.A.P.," Vick said. She pulled the video up on her computer, playing it again for him and Gus. The rest of the station involved in this investigation was screening it as well. "Now, it seems the pictures may tell us the where—"

"You don't get it," Shawn said miserably. "I know what she was trying to tell me." It was underneath the more pronounced "speech" from the video; Shawn, adapt at lip reading, saw her add in the whispers.

These lines, these were the reasons he had run. It was a terrible shock to see the pictures, to see Juliet and Lassiter trussed up like that, to have to admit that they were helpless— that he was really going to have to man up on this one, but he could handle it, mostly because they were proof after proof of life. Both sets of their eyes were blazing, no matter how pale they looked, or apprehensive.

She knew little things about him; _god_, he hated that he could still hear her in his head. He hadn't heard her voice in six months, but still, her words were _right there_, at his forehead, whispering sweet nothings into his eye socket.

Not that Shawn hadn't known this before; he had known from the first moment that Vick's words had really sunk in, that he was obligated to play this dangerous game. Why he had run had nothing to do with the "playing", the skulking, the matching of wits, the outsmarting, being one or two steps ahead. No, it was the _choosing_.

Yang had said, in between batting her pitiful lashes and fluffing her tangled hair, _"If you don't play the game, I'll kill them both. And if you do play, Shaaaaaaawwwwwhhhhn,"_— he'd counted the elongated syllables— _"you will choose who lives and who dies."_

He had to tell them; it would be no good for Jules or Lassie if secrets were kept. Shawn was certain everyone could see the guilt all over him, as if it were leprosy. _Jules,_ in the hollow of his throat. _Jules . . . _Yet, how was he going to make this choice?


	5. Chapter 4: Make You See, Make You Scream

**Chapter Four: Make You See, Make You Scream Like You're Losing Your Mind**

**__________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Author's Note: Thanks for your patience and support; I know, very long delay. I greatly appreciate your reviews and feedback which so help keep me motivated. If you feel the need to criticize, please be constructive.

My characters may seem OOC (they don't to me), but I stick by my choices; however, I don't mind hearing opinions and insights; always trying to improve! I'm taking some liberties this chapter when it comes to the forensic ballistics/ processing DNA speedily. *Makes note to ask my experts later*

Great thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far— *hugs for everyone*

***This chapter makes some minor references to my story "Ask For Another Day", as I will soon be introducing a character from that story into this one (as requested). It isn't required to read that one first, but just be aware of these references. Thank you. ***

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

_"Tell me, who will you choose?"_ Juliet heard Yang's voice again in her head as the woman had spoken to the camera. She had been turned away from them, but Juliet had focused on the back of her head as it bobbled animatedly and on her body language— so relaxed, as if she threatened people everyday; in a way, Juliet supposed she did. What most bothered her was that, though she hadn't been able to hear everything Yang had said while whispering, Mary's cryptic statements had almost cleared the air.

"Making him choose, that's brilliant," Mary complimented after he'd set the camera down, still wearing the mask. He bent his arms awkwardly, wincing at movement on his right shoulder, and gathered some fabric in his fingertips, and pulled.

Behind her, Juliet felt Carlton shift, then could make out a low grumble— it was indisputable now that he'd seen the traitorous profiler with his own eyes.

"You think so?" Yang asked, pouting her lips for a moment as if to relinquish control, then took it back with a sharp grin. She tossed a look towards the detectives, surprised to find them staring back at her without so much as a flinch. _A challenge, then, an extra bonus— two more to break. _(And if it would effect Shawn more so, she was in.) She stole another glimpse at Mary, leaning in and pretending to flirt. "You think it's sexy that I asked him to be the executioner, so he can know how it feels to—?"

Mary blinked, his expression in its usual blankness. He flicked his eyes towards the detectives, then back to Yang, deliberately avoiding her question. "Whatever happens, I hope I'm the one who gets to shoot the Head Detective." His eyes crinkled warmly towards her, amending, "Not that I should take the kill from you."

Lassiter stiffened, but the grumbles resembled curses to Juliet. She glared at the former profiler, trying to make sense of why he would want to shoot her partner. Trying also, to make sense of what the two had said about choosing.

Mary waited, as if for her forgiveness that he'd jumped the gun. Her lip had curled, and she had turned to blast the heat of her dark eyes on the blond detective. "You really think that, do you? That he will choose her immediately and be done with it?" Yang snapped her head back to Mary. "Do you think she's prettier than me?"

He sighed, taking in a shaky breath. Again, he avoided the question. "Is that what this is about? You think the game will be over too soon?" He stepped towards her, patting her shoulder awkwardly. He shook his head. "I know it may be hard for you to understand, but Shawn has morals. I was there, I watched him— for all of his impulsiveness, he wouldn't make such a rash decision when it comes to—" He looked away from her, resting his eyes on the detectives again.

"You think?" Yang asked, her tone beginning to churn up its excitement. "That is my Shawny then." She gave him a sideways look. "Does he really have that many scruples?"

He shrugged.

She pouted. "He did deny me, in the car, you know. I asked _so_ politely— but he still said no." She turned around, pacing her steps so she was back at the foot of their bed. She gave them each pointed looks. "I want you both to know—" She held it, basking in the poisonous heat of their unwilling attention, "that neither of you are safe— just because I didn't blow up his mother." Violet clenched her fists, releasing some speech in a jumble of G sounds. "I wanted to, _so much_. I complete things."

Lassiter scowled, with the upper parts of his face, at the killer, wondering if Juliet were doing the same. Yang behaved exactly the same as the night they'd arrested her, with her unyielding smile still in place as several officers had held her to the ground, cuffing her. She hadn't resisted, but she also hadn't once taken her eyes off of Shawn, even though there were a sea of uniforms and plain clothes and SWAT around her; her glare had continued as if there were only the two of them at this sleepy little drive-in.

"We're going on a trip, a trip, a trip, a trip," Violet told them, clapping her hands together like a child. Lassiter forked over the evil eye, holding it even after she moved into his blind spot. "Very soon, a trip." She sighed. "He's good— _too_ good?" She raised an eyebrow in Mary's direction.

He stared back, not wanting to answer, not knowing how. "You always stayed at least five steps ahead of me for the past thirteen years. Takes passion." Stating facts, placating, he hoped. At the very least, she might recognize it for an awkward compliment, possibly jealousy— Mary was no match for her, and certainly no Shawn Spencer. But Mary was not bothered; he never once wished he was Shawn Spencer.

"You're right— I'm good. Just as—" She clicked her tongue, and tossed her hair over her shoulders, making a halfhearted attempt to fluff it before losing interest. Instead, she frowned at Juliet's blond mane, her lips turning further down until she had to comment. "I'll bet anything that Shawny prefers brunettes." Her lips turned upward and her teeth came out. "That little twig of a girl he picked instead of you, dear, was one."

Juliet forced her eyes away from Yang's, scanning anything but, though it was difficult to ignore the killer's forceful glare. Juliet's intestines twisted at the mention of Shawn's picked pixie— an old flame he was certain he'd had a second chance with. In the silence of her thoughts, Juliet's mind lurched; how had this woman known who Shawn had chosen? She had been long off the scene before Juliet made her embarrassing and clumsy debut as "Potential Girlfriend to Shawn Spencer". Well, not clumsy, but the moment had soured— though she had never been shot, she had likened the sensation of having her heart broken to this— in her line of work, it seemed appropriate.

Behind her, Carlton shifted. Juliet again used him to distract herself, concentrating on his steady rise and fall of breath. Though she was as temporarily helpless as he was, she was still determined to keep an "eye" on him— hmm, was there another way to phrase this expression since she couldn't actually see him? She sighed, a faint push air against the tape. Juliet hated having the wad of fabric in her mouth and the tape across it— it was akin to being smothered. And it burned her that Carlton had received the same treatment while he was obviously more hurt than she was. She experienced a stab of fear; what if he became sick, his mouth filling up, the vomit with no place to go—? Her heart raced.

What Lassiter most wanted, other than to get the upper hand back and get his hands around his gun, was to keep his partner safe. He didn't like listening to her rapid breathing while knowing he couldn't bark a word at her about calming down. It bothered him constantly to be in a state of helplessness, with pieces of his memory still on the fritz. Their abductors hadn't spoken much about their plans for two, other than it involved Spencer having to choose something— or perhaps, choose one of them. _For what? _He recalled bits and pieces of Yang's speech to the digital camera, but it was hard to make sense of it. Some of it nagged that that he should be more worrisome; he wondered if O'Hara had picked up more. Yang had whispered, and his fuzzy head hadn't caught more than a few out of order words. He couldn't help go over again what Yang had said to first get their attention, wondering if it were some kind of elaborate lie. _"Did you know, for a fact, that your Chief is worried sick about you both?" _

He could hardly place this, for himself, but he could see how the Chief would be upset over O'Hara. She would likely see Lassiter as fully capable taking care of himself, which he would say that he usually was. But for all his time on the force, there had only been a handful of incidents, not including his ordeal over a year ago, that he would have needed help getting out of— serious help. The ordeal had been neatly compartmentalized; he could almost, on the best or busiest of days, convince himself it never occurred. His stomach twisted, dwelling on Yang's tease. He could suddenly see clearly that he would be included in the tangle of Vick's fear. . . . Lassiter focused on breathing until the ordeal went back into its faraway locked lock box. This fear was different— not chemically produced, it was god's honest shit. _I have to protect her. I have to, no matter what. No matter what. _

Lassiter, with little else to do, decided to attempt to figure out what he should be protecting his young partner from, besides the two abductors right in front of their faces. He wished he could think more clearly; he reminded himself constantly of what the stranger had said— that he needed to stay awake. It was a noble cause, he told himself— just about anything could happen to O'Hara if he happened to nod off . . . _Can't take that chance. _

Using the white wall before him as a canvas, Lassiter spread out the facts, "marking" his points and facts with looks to different parts of the wall, as if he had made a nice pile there or a long list. They kept speaking about a "game"; he and O'Hara were obvious pawns, with Yang and Spencer as the major players. He thought through everything he had learned, using what he already knew about Yang, and the little he thought he'd known about Lightly. He closed his eyes, only to think.

_Hadn't the pansy profiler mentioned something about shooting him? And . . . _Carlton blinked, trying to piece together an answer to his questions, at least one. _And something about . . . Spencer having scruples . . . not choosing too rashly. _Lassiter was pulled from his quest to wonder over this; _did Spencer really have scruples? Did he at least possess enough to make the right decision, whatever, in this special case, that might be?_ Lassiter was uncomfortable, knowing his life— and O'Hara's— rode on whatever mood Spencer might be in; Spencer had nearly royally screwed up last time; a grimace spread across his features, recalling the reckless moment Spencer had pitched the cell phone into ocean. Lassiter chewed the wad of cloth. Water under the bridge; everything, then, had come out okay— not one death and the subject had been apprehended.

_A fat lot of nothing good that did now, though,_ he couldn't help thinking, his outlook bleak. But, Lassiter couldn't know how this might turn out. He forced himself to think of the future, and think of it positively, if only for the sake of O'Hara. He wanted to believe they would get through this, together, as partners. _But . . . if_ _Yang was going to force Spencer to choose, then, what would he be choosing? . . . _Understanding prickled up the back of his neck, settling at his hairline to chill. _Not "what"— who. _

* * *

Vick sighed again, under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose as she forced herself to keep her voice even. "Please, show me again."

This demonstration had been going on for a solid twenty minutes, the five of them watching Yang's silent video, with Shawn reading her lips aloud. He continued to insist that Yang was relaying a secret message or two to him. "Right there, _there_," Shawn pointed at the screen as Yang grinned, unnecessarily whispering, _"You will choose who lives and who dies."_

Shawn alternated from a mass of trembling tension to a limp noodle, folded forward on himself. Vick had a hard time recognizing where the real Shawn Spencer was in either of these manifestations. Each time he spoke, he made himself sound responsible, as if he'd asked for the return of Yang on a whim, but was now guilt ridden that her detectives' lives were in his hands. Karen had no time to coddle him, saying nothing to banish his guilt; besides, even if it were unfair, a small bit of her might cast blame. She shook it away quickly, hoping it would go. The only blame that should be cast was onto Yang.

The passage of time resembled slower agony; Vick's miscomprehension frustrated her, and her tension seeped through the air into Henry. When Henry suggested that Shawn could be mistaken, a snap of fire, as if a new log had just been dropped carelessly into a patch of low flames, shot across Shawn's eyes. _"You_ taught me," Shawn accused, turning on Henry as if he were somehow responsible. "How can you not see it, what she's saying?" Taut like a bow string, Shawn shot up from his chair, arching his back. He hissed, "How am I supposed to choose? Why does she want me to choose?"

Why was it no one was stepping up to answer his questions? Or even to tell him things would be okay— he'd faced her before and had won. Won. So why did he feel like a loser?

Something heavy in his throat, like a fistful of tears, threatened his breath. He couldn't make sense of this for the life of him— though he recanted quickly, remembering that the last had barely made sense up until she'd grabbed his mother. But Juliet? Lassiter? Shawn ran a hand across his mouth, the familiar stubble giving him pause. He was wasting time; Jules and Lassie were out there, in need— bound and injured— and this was all his fault.

Shawn sank back into his chair. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and then proceeded to walk all of them through the video once more, with a patience the others— with the exception of Detective Alexander— had no idea he could even possess.

"Right there, there," Shawn repeating, stabbing his hand at the computer screen. He took control of the mouse, tapping the movement down frame by frame. He spoke for her, both of her voices; this was a rare occasion when Shawn wished he was not the center of attention.

He had not so much as admitted it, but last time around, only six months ago, had taken a serious toll on him. Alone, he twitched or flinched easily at noises, and even worried for a few weeks after that he'd never be able to close his eyes without seeing her face leering towards him with her too long teeth, that frizzy hair. She was not, by a stretch, prettier than he'd imagined— only "pretty" at all because he'd expected to find a man. Finding her had thrown him— the rabbit hole much darker and more narrow than when he'd first tunneled in. Seeing her, actually seeing her wink and beckon him to her, had caused the sensation of the walls closing in, as if he were in a funhouse watching helplessly as the room he stood shrunk.

For a few brief seconds, Shawn misjudged her, because she was a woman— _she couldn't really be_ that bad, _could she?_ But almost immediately he remembered his mother sitting in the car behind him, strapped. She was just as bad, if not worse.

_"If you don't play, I'll kill them both, and if you do play . . ." _Frame by frame brought out an understanding, a collective gasp or hiss.

"How am I supposed to?" Shawn babbled, shrugging off his father's hand on his arm.

"Play or chose?" Detective Alexander interrupted, sounding sharp as tacks.

Shawn slowly rose his eyes towards hers, finding a smidgen of anger at her almost accusation. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's a simple question, Mr. Spencer, and I'm certain you're capable of a simple answer."

"You think I'm not going to 'play'?" Shawn snapped. "Is that what you think? She went after my friends to get to me. How can I not play?"

"Didn't you try to run?" Detective Alexander asked, crossing her arms. "How can we be as certain we can trust you?"

Vick started to protest, but was cut off by Guster's "Hey, that's not fair." He got up and went to stand behind Shawn's chair. "Put yourself in his shoes for a moment."

"Gus, I don't think she'll take time out to play dress up," Shawn whispered over his shoulder, completely serious.

Gus rolled his eyes briefly. "Not dress up— it's an expression, Shawn."

"I've heard it both ways."

"Shawn," Henry hissed.

"Gentlemen," Vick cut in, "Detective, can we please focus?" Though her face didn't show it, she was grateful to see a little bit of what was usual for her psychic consultant. "Shawn, please, for confirmation's sake, you're with us?" She raised an eyebrow with purpose.

"Chief," Shawn breathed. He was encouraged to go on when he felt Gus squeeze his shoulder. "Of course I'm with you." He stole a glance at Henry, wishing he hadn't, because his father's eyes were guarded with a determined look; Shawn could hardly admit how scared he was now. What if he couldn't do this? What if he miscalculated, or made the volatile woman too angry— what if she just snapped and— He shook his head, raising a hand to his temple as if he were experiencing a vision. He closed his eyes, taking a few moments to clear his head. Instead, the pictures of Lassiter and Juliet blared; not once did either of them peer at the camera begging, but— "I can see them," Shawn said aloud. "They want me to find them."

Detective Alexander huffed. "We're wasting time, here."

Gus held up his hand. In his mouth, unusual words— a knotted defense for the two missing detectives; odd as it was, because he didn't find himself as close to either of them as Shawn did. But still— he could appreciate them as semi-colleagues— or team mates. He struggled for the usual politeness he didn't have to fake around Juliet or Lassiter. "He needs some space, just let him be, okay?" Placating, though he found himself desiring to grill her about her attachment to the pair— it couldn't be as great as the rest in this room; Gus glanced at Henry. Maybe not Henry. He swallowed. _Gone. They were really gone. _He let his hand fall back to Shawn's shoulder, both a signal to this unknown detective that he wasn't playing around, and to Shawn to take his time.

Going through the backgrounds on the pictures and the video in his mind, Shawn began transcribing the details— plain white walls, old furniture— a king sized bed with a fraying mauve comforter, flat white pillows. A night stand and table, both constructed of the same tan plywood. He could see her hands, her fingers crossed against each other, as if she were discussing a business matter with him, rather than life and death.

In his hands.

Shawn took a deep breath. He couldn't be of help if he kept freaking; he was being depended upon. He waited while the continuos flip book of the bound detectives made another fast cycle through his mind. There was a sharp pain in his gut when it came to an end; this was all they had. Several pictures, certainly, but poor substitutes. Was this pang . . . only for her? For . . . Jules? Shawn felt a thump form in his throat.

It seemed hardly a decision at all out of context; Juliet's sunny disposition vs. Lassiter's general fixed scowl; he could see them walking down the hallway together this way. But to picture just one— or the other here, knowing the one of them would never be coming back— _How am I going to do this? I can't. I can't choose. _

Shawn brought both hands to his head, cupping his ears. He knew that if he didn't figure this out, he was going to carry his own personal ghost forever— _I have to get them both back._ He hissed aloud. Forcing himself to tell his "vision", Shawn spoke aloud the details of the room where his friends were being held, summoning the words and emotions of Dr. William's to walk the tight rope in his show, spinning it just so so his "vision" came off as "spirit expressed"— only without his usual glee. Gus was there for moral support, even adding the necessary words and repetition of Shawn's name when need be— only twice.

As he had spoken, Karen had joined Guster on the interactive vision, deducing a starting point— a next step. "Detective Alexander, I need you to check all motels and hotels within 30 miles of St. Thomas of the Apostles," Vick told her, "with an emphasis on the cheapest, most desolate, with the most vacancies."

"Yes, Chief." Detective Alexander eyed Shawn on her way out, her mouth fixed in a permanent line of suspicion, but she took her orders seriously.

When she was gone, Henry asked, "What now?"

Vick locked her fingers together across her desk. She deigned to give her "volunteers" a few minutes break while she again sifted through the information. "Get up, stretch, visit the vending machines— but don't you dare leave the station." She sighed. "Henry, I have no problem with you leaving, but the two of you—"

"My car's at the Psych office," Gus said with shrug. This didn't mean that Shawn might not try to run again— but he had said he wouldn't.

Standing, Henry grabbed Shawn's arm, not letting go until he pulled Shawn up. "If you don't mind, Karen, I'd like to stick around for a while. Come on, Shawn. You hungry?"

Shawn shook his head, but Gus mumbled, "I could eat."

"All right, then," Karen said. "Meet back here in five to ten, and we'll get back to work."

"Years?" Shawn asked, letting his father and Gus guide him towards the door. "Months? Days? Although shorter, hours even shorter—"

His babbling worried her, so she cut in with, "Seconds."

"Seconds?" Shawn repeated, at the door. "Two steps out into the hall, and I'll have to come back."

"You'll have to come back— I'm counting on you," Vick said, grateful to have the space to herself for a few minutes. Her thoughts were already spilling from her head into the air when she heard Shawn, from the hallway, call out, "What are you counting? Hours? Minutes?" His voice faded, further away. "The ways?"

After a moment, she nodded to no one. _The ways. The ways— methods in which you solve and close your cases. Bring results. Save lives. That's what I'm counting on._

* * *

"You know," Violet said, taking the seat on the bed directly opposite Juliet, "I'd so enjoy some girl talk time with you." She leered forward. "Are you up for it, Miss O'Hara?"

Juliet rolled her eyes, letting them rest on the ceiling; never before in the course of her life had she actually desired to spit on someone. "Well, great, glad you agree," Yang said, leaning in. "But I really want you to look at me while I talk— otherwise, I'll take you as rude." She narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't want that, would you?" Juliet continued to hold her eyes away; she couldn't stop the killer from talking, but she didn't have to comply.

"You're disappointing me," Yang pouted. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, dropping her face into her hands. "I can't very well girl talk with anyone else here."

_Then why don't you just shut up?_ Juliet asked the ceiling.

"Hmm, if that's the way you feel— Mary? How would you like to put that stun gun to Detective Lassiter's face again?"

Her singsonged threat froze them; their hands moved involuntarily against each others". _Was that true? Was that why?_ Lassiter thought, _my brain feels like it's been fried?_ He huffed through his nose, the images post accident filtering through, though after the jolt to his cheek he partially recalled the shuddering on the ground, pieces of himself scattered about, and it had been harder to think.

Juliet protested, shaking her head as she caught movement of Mary. It wasn't fair— he still looked harmless, wearing his ankle weights and eating sardines out of a can— as if he couldn't hurt a fly. _Was it really true, had Mary really—? _This stunned her; for a few seconds, she was weightless, drifting from her body until she was stopped by the boundaries of her own skin. Pushing lingering chagrin aside, Juliet squeezed Lassiter's hand, hoping to share comfort and a promise to make the profiler pay for the assault— with justice, or even some rough handling upon his arrest. (Nothing that would get her written up, or get an arrest thrown out, of course.) Though she suspected that Lassiter would like to, once they were free, (man)handle Lightly on his own terms, pretending to not realize his own strength.

For now, it was all she could do to not allow her partner to be further injured— as long as it were in her control. Juliet brought her eyes to Yang's, letting them rest in the stagnant black pools of her irises, waiting for more of the killer's "girly side" to come forth.

"Delightful!" Yang squealed. "Now tell me, do you think Shawn will like my hair better up or down?" She moved her frizzy hair about to demonstrate. "Should I make my face up? What should I wear?"

Lassiter groaned to himself, listening. He was beyond pissed to hear what had been done to him— to remember— and now to have Juliet obviously forced to comply or risk her partner getting zapped again. He had seen Lightly moving, but he was at a disadvantage being on his right side facing the wall, not to mention his current restrained position.

Grounding himself by holding his shoulder blades against O'Hara's, Carlton let himself drift. If this scenario was true, if they had been kidnapped to somehow force Spencer's hand, and Spencer had to choose only one— he guffawed humorously; if this were the case, _of course he was doomed._ But, should it be any other way? No— Spencer _should_ choose Juliet, if not because the idiot couldn't admit his feelings, then just because it was the right thing to do— she should be the one who survived. Fresh and young, determined and ambitious— just starting her life and already advancing in her career. She should be the one.

It wasn't easy to make his peace with his own death, but Carlton resolved that he would try, if it came down to that, if they as partners couldn't find a way out— _My job is to protect her, to sacrifice for her, if I have to, _Lassiter thought over calmly. He could do it, for a good cause.

"You know," Yang said, giddy, "Mary thinks my given name suits me." She beamed in his direction before turning her attention fully back to Juliet. "But would Shawn like me more as a Ruby? Or a Poppy? Scarlet. Scarlet O'Hara." Juliet flinched involuntarily; the gibberish was starting to get oddly personal. "Don't like that one, dear?" Yang asked her, pretending to wait for an answer. She reached out and encircled Juliet's shoulder, ignoring the young detective's wince. "Now, this is important. On our first date, should I tell him, in detail, about my very first death, or is that more third date fodder?" She giggled then, a harsh, disharmonious noise that made both Juliet's and Lassiter's skins crawl. "He should be interested in me, want to know about all of the kills— but I agree, I should spare him my wild thoughts for the completion of his mother. Too rash?" She cocked her head in Mary's direction. He stared back, eventually tossing her a shrug.

"It's understandable," he comforted. "After all, no one had ever played your game that well."

"That's true," Yang agreed.

"Because the others you thought had been so good had been amateurs, but you couldn't have know that they would fail you."

"No, I couldn't. Though this didn't make the kills any less sweet."

"I know, I know," Mary said, nodding, as if he really knew. It seemed like the appropriate thing to say. He held Lassiter's stare when the detective wrenched his head in his direction, the trace of a smile upon his lips. "Did that hurt you?" Mary asked, watching Lassiter draw his head back to the pillow with a dizzied look in his eyes. "I hope it did, you bastard." He spoke it as he spoke everything, with an flat tone.

"You'll get your chance, Mary," Yang said, pulling up her grin. "Weren't there enough goodies to satisfy in that bag?" Her grin widened. "Or should we go find another one?"

He nodded, then shook his head, thinking it wasn't best to encourage her— she'd likely insist they kill the next one. And he had, admittedly, a weak stomach in spite of his unusual snack choices. "Bag helped." He blew out a breath. "I just want to make it hurt. Like bad things." Mary rotated his shoulder, drawing his left arm across his body to rest a hand on his upper chest. He sneered. "You ever been shot, Detective?" he asked Lassiter, who, in spite of wrenching his neck, glared back. He huffed. "Now I can say I have." He curled his lips. "For a Head Detective, you're a pretty bad shot."

Juliet moved her eyes towards Mary; what the hell was this man saying? She was having a hard time remembering Lassiter shooting anyone— today; had he gotten one in the profiler? For the very first time since this began, Juliet experienced a flood of relief— not certain why. She squeezed Lassiter's fingers quickly, as if to— what? Convey a job well done? Not quite. She wasn't certain why, but she felt this action had gained them some kind of advantage— something gone wrong for this criminal pair.

Lassiter didn't squeeze back; Juliet hoped he was still conscious.

"You're not paying attention to me," Yang accused, startling her. She gasped through her nose, shifting her attention back. _Hadn't this woman said all she wanted to say yet?_ Juliet waited. "That's better. Now, tell me, should I play hard to get?" Violet batted her eyes, in which, Juliet couldn't help notice again and again, bore an uncanny effect of holding a mirror up to another mirror, and seeing both mirrors reflected endlessly in the other. It was dizzying, paralyzing, sickening; Juliet's breath slipped. She would rather see nothing, instead of mirror reflecting mirror reflecting— endless deadness, endless insanity, endless cruelty. "Seemed to almost work so well for you— and him—" Yang cackled. "He's mine. I staked him, claimed him. He _belongs_ to me. You'll see—"

Juliet thought she might throw up. Carlton made a sound that Juliet was almost certain was some kind of obscene curse.

"Oh, do you think this is _funny_, Detective?" Yang asked, raising her chin and eyebrows at the same time. She rose from her seat, almost floating ethereally around the bed, unable to help herself from brushing Mary's arm on her way. It was a small gesture, but she knew he appreciated it; for reasons beyond her basic comprehension, this noodly man found her fascinating, found her mind a puzzle and a thrill. Her mouth puckered unattractively on her way; these were things she wished for as gifts from Shawn— well, there was still time. She could get him to say those things, even if they were all lies. It didn't matter.

Yang stopped in front of Lassiter, obscuring his view of the blank wall. He rolled his eyes away from her defiantly, keeping them on the solid, blank ceiling. With a fist half like a claw, Yang threw her arm towards his forehead, towards the newly stitched up gash.

"Stop!" Mary yelled flatly, his voice louder but still exactly the same. He had kept his eyes on her as she went to Lassiter, experiencing a pang of jealously that alluded any sense in his head.

Lassiter reeled back, knocking his head hard against Juliet's; he had no desire to taste his own stale, antiseptic smeared blood as it would glob down the side of his face if she managed to rip those makeshift stitches out.

Mary leapt for her, again thanking the removal of his ankle weights, a suggestion from the "Miss"— or "Ms." before their police ambush caper; he felt light on his toes. He swooped in, catching her wrist and tilting her back against the wall. They both knew that he had no power over her, even physically, she could best him if she so chose. But she allowed him to hold her there, their bodies close while Yang's intended victim squirmed, mumbling something indiscernible over his shoulder. For a moment, Mary couldn't speak; being close to her in this way stirred up something nameless inside his chest, like the stirring of ice cubes in a pitcher of water.

"Mary. Lightly," Yang muttered, her dark eyes fixed on him. He should have been unnerved, but instead, he found his words.

"You don't want to do that," he told her in a firm monotone. "We just got that fixed. Remember?" He raised his eyebrows for emphasis

She stared at him, then nodded, still waiting.

"I'm only thinking of your game," Mary continued, some minute affection creeping in. "You need both to make him play the game, don't you?" he added gently, softly.

Yang again nodded, this time letting her wiry body slump against the wall. "You're— right." A grin appeared. "This is too— rash."

Lassiter caught part of it, turning his eyes away in disgust. He felt guilty for hurting his partner, even involuntarily; as soon as her muffled yelp registered, he'd gritted his teeth until it hurt.

Mary stared at her, the ache in his right shoulder spreading down his back. He wanted to "allow" her to act, though he knew, with perspective, that Lassiter had had every right to a self defense. But the detective didn't have to pay for it right now; these were the first legs of the game, shaky and barely upright— the best— the juicy stuff— yet to occur. And Mary was going to be at her side for all of it. He was going to need thicker skin, a steel plate for his stomach, and more training with his ankle weights to pull this off. But looking her over again— maybe not.

"What would I do without you?" Yang asked with a hint of sultriness, sated when Mary let go of her, stepped back. She also couldn't comprehend why he trusted her so, almost without question. That reminded her . . . she smiled to herself. He was only a partial reminder, with his trust, his sandy hair. A boy she'd kissed, in her teens, a boy she had killed. . . .

Mary hadn't answered her, but deigned to give her space, taking his place back at the foot of the bed.

Yang pulled away from the wall, towering over the prone Head Detective. She pointed a bony digit at his face, settling for scolding, though her appetite for violence had yet to be satisfied. "You can think this a joke," Yang said, running her eyes all over his face in an attempt to get him to look at her, "but you're the last one to be laughing. If know my Shawny— my best opponent— then that pretty much means your death, Detective." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Don't think it'll be swift— we want you to hurt." Yang leaned back in, pressing herself nearly nose to nose with Lassiter, who still wouldn't look at her. This time, he didn't flinch, or try to move away. "When I do it, I'm going to make her watch every second." She broke out her grin. "It will be _so much fun_."

* * *

"Chief," Buzz said as he knocked on the open door. She waved him in, though the trio was due back soon. She had been torturing herself with the stacks of pictures, with the videos, trying to see all the things Shawn had seen, but coming up short. "Detective Lassiter's gun was definitely fired, but we're still waiting on ballistics to know for certain if the bullet recovered from the tree came from his gun."

Vick nodded, a gesture that conveyed him to continue. "The CSU techs have been running the blood recovered through our forensic databases—" Rosan passed him, stopping just short of Vick's desk. He gathered his thoughts. "There was a hit on the blood on the bullet, Chief."

"Blood? This is for the alleged accomplice? Whom we suspect was shot by Lassiter?"

Detective Alexander nodded in confirmation. "Apparently, the DNA that was a match for the recovered blood from the scene, we have on file and was obtained voluntarily."

Vick raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

Detective Alexander took a file from under arm, pulling out a piece of white paper, reading aloud, "Sample was obtained from subject upon SBPD entry, volunteered proof as innocence to involvement in all crimes . . ." She scanned down, until she reached the desired sentences. "With a thirteen year involvement as a criminal profiler in the Santa Barbara Yin Yang serial killer case, subject wishes to make clear that . . ."

"What?" Karen struggled for a few moments against the colossal weight gravity was now forcing upon her shoulders to keep her seated, or perhaps even lower, but she grappled herself to her feet. Her desk chair hit the wall.

Minutely, the past repeated itself; in this case, it was not the great disbelief over Lassiter's and O'Hara's disappearance but someone she had trusted— who had so betrayed them all. She couldn't gather her thoughts. This day was full of so many unexpected events, she wished she had been somehow forewarned. But even her psychic— even _he_ hadn't known.

McNab had leaned heavily against the door; as if, by seeing Vick's reaction, the truth had been confirmed for him. He excused himself to notify the team who had been out searching for Lightly. "Progress report on your search, Detective," Vick commanded, trying for a momentarily distraction.

"Narrowed down to ten, fitting your— and our consultant's— description," Detective Alexander said. She took in a breath, pushing some stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Chief, if Mary Lightly is out of the picture, who's left?"

Vick thought for a long moment, remembering finally the even voice of a rather rational man. Though they had only been introduced once, he had left a great impression upon her. She had been present when he had adamantly told Lassiter to call him if he was ever in trouble again. Well . . . wasn't he ever? "I know who to call."


	6. Chapter 5: Moments Ago, Seconds Away

**Chapter Five: You're Moments Ago, But Seconds Away**

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer: Don't own references to _Men's Fitness_. Also, the estimated distance from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara via car is about an hour and forty minutes to three hours, with traffic, according to WikiAnswers(dot)com.

Author's Note: This chapter shows an AU version of the Shawn-Abigail relationship. Time lines may be slightly off; I'm attempting to match the "Mr. Yang" story line with some of the events from my story "Ask For Another Day". I'm also taking some liberties when it comes to Henry's time on the SBPD, the year he may have possibly retired, and whether or not Henry and Vick may have ever worked together on the SBPD, as well as her time and experience as a police officer, so I ask you to suspend your disbelief when it comes to these. (I did ask all the experts, but they all say that these issues may have never been addressed on the show— as yet.)

As always, reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and greatly appreciated. Thank you!

***This chapter makes some minor references to my story "Ask For Another Day", as I will be introducing a character from that story into this one (as requested by **EgorStandish**). :) It isn't required to read that one first, but just be aware of these references. Thank you. ***

* * *

* * *

She stared at the blood work run up from scene, disbelieving that it had a match— rather, disbelieving just who it had been matched to.

_"It's him, he's the killer."_ Vick heard a retrospection of Shawn Spencer's voice of six months ago, upon walking into the station, picking Mary Lightly out of the crowd of officers and detectives. Emotion of some kind fluttered in her chest— in the fray of those moments, with riddle and the stopwatch at hand, a young woman's life in the balance, she and her detectives had quickly brushed off Shawn's psychic "vibrations" as conjecture— or misinformation from his— his non-corporeal "sources". Vick pressed her teeth together, feeling as if she were biting down on crystal— or ice.

They hadn't the time now to sort through all this— the why or the how. Was there a chance that she was jumping to conclusions? Could he be victim, forced to aid Yang? Her eyes narrowed, trying to see through this possibility. Karen sighed. It didn't make any sense to her, and she had a solid twenty years of experience to fall back on.

She ruled out the possibly that Lightly was some kind of innocent victim; if he had been, why hadn't he been mentioned by Dr. Williams as a third figure in the room, a cowering figure? She blew out a breath through her teeth.

It had to more than coincidence that Lightly was unable to be reached, that Yang had now taken an accomplice to her side— someone who had taken Dr. Williams from the parking lot, driven the car, held the camera. Alone in her office— since Detective Alexander had excused herself to continue narrowing down the motel search, McNab going also to assist her— Karen was unable to keep her hand from curling into a fist. _Lightly had worked with them— helped them, going everywhere that her detectives went— what could have led him to turn on them?_ There was much they didn't know about the abduction— but they had enough pieces to recreate the scene. Now, with Lightly's blood and previous DNA sample— the many things he'd touched while in the SBPD HQ— at her elbow, Karen felt she had made a grave error misjudging the profiler with the high IQ and the blank expression; was it all just some kind of terrible but convincing act to hide his true— _affection?_ for the Yin Yang killer?

She thought around it, trying to peer into the sheer drop off of six months prior, into the brief time she had spent with the man; since the events had unfolded in a 24 hour time span. Were there signs? Tells? Granted, she hadn't been focused on Lightly passed the point of expecting results from him; this could be why nothing about him, other than the general oddities— a quirkiness she'd let slide— stood out. And he'd come highly recommended, with accolades. She frowned.

_He's become our enemy—_ The fist she had clenched earlier shook, shooting tension up her arm and neck, into her jaw. She couldn't spare anger; again, she needed someone who would deliver results— as soon as possible.

* * *

She had only thought, as she waited on hold, that there was a chance that he may not be available; her stomach twisted into a new, smaller knot. She waited with baited breath, with a schoolgirl nervousness; she felt she would never have an appetite again, and coffee was bound to make her so sick, but she was planning to live on it until—

"Come on," Vick hissed into the phone. Silence kept her company, or rather, heightened her worry. She was still thrown to discover that Mary Lightly had become Yang's new accomplice; it was as surreal as thinking over again that her Head Detective and his Junior partner had been kidnapped. But she had seen the pictures. . . . She could imagine worse nightmares, those which involved her daughter or her husband, or even her sister, but her officers and detectives were another story. They were a different kind of family— and Lassiter and Juliet had become— she sighed, not having the words she wanted. What she felt was less maternal but she couldn't deny that she harbored protective instincts.

Her detectives were holding up, it seemed, in spite of the situation. But it still hurt her with an almost physical ache to see them bound and gagged, pale with apprehension and doubt— and to hear from young Dr. Williams that though they both had injuries requiring of medical attention, Lassiter was by far the worst off. She wanted to be able to count on him to be a source of strength— but this felt unfair to O'Hara, who had come such a long way since her first day on the job at the SBPD.

As Karen waited, she began to formulate her plans; grateful that Shawn Spencer was fully on board, especially since they might not have much time. The games were different— Yang had shown them her face, they'd received proof of life, but Karen had no idea if this meant that they were given more time or less.

She was startled from her thoughts when a man's voice said, "Hello?"

"Yes, hello, this is Chief Karen Vick from the Santa Barbara Police Department. To whom am I speaking?"

The man coughed. "Chief Vick?" he repeated, "This is Adam Marks, retired Sergeant of the Los Angeles PD. How can I be of service?"

She licked her lips and swallowed a lump at the back of her throat. "I don't know if you recall, but we met about a year ago, following some trouble with your former SBPD partner, Detective Carlton Lassiter—"

Marks' breathing increased, the sound audible. "Yes, yes, I remember. Has something happened?" When Karen hesitated, he continued, "I'm proud, you understand, to say I had a hand in raising him in a way, shaping his path. He was always self-sufficient; even with the trouble he was in then I know I shouldn't have expected him to call. If _you're_ contacting me, then—"

Vick took a sip from a paper cup half filled with cold coffee. "We have a situation here, and what I need is someone capable and trustworthy on our side." She sighed. "Are you at all familiar with the Yin Yang serial killer, Sgt. Marks?"

"Please, call me Adam," Marks corrected gently, before confirming that he knew of this killer. "I remember, about, what fourteen, fifteen years ago, a couple years before Lassiter was assigned to me, that the SBPD first received a Yin Yang and a riddle from that killer. John Fenich was Chief at the time." He waited with practiced patience for her to continue.

"All right," Vick said. _Good to know._ She put off telling about her detectives until she had said everything else she'd needed to— about Yang's escape and return, the profiler's changing of sides, the "deadly game" she was now forcing Shawn Spencer into playing, and other brief but necessary details.

He briefly asked her if these were the same people he had met in that day he showed up unexpectedly.

"Yes, that's right. The stakes are very high," she pressed on, "and I thought of you immediately because—" Now or never. "—Because Carlton and his partner, Detective O'Hara, have been abducted."

On the other end of the line, Marks gasped, stifling a cough. "By this killer and this profiler?" he repeated slowly, fighting, it seemed, as she had, for complete understanding.

"Yes," Karen affirmed. "Adam, I need your help— we all do." How much she wanted to comment on Shawn Spencer's being a wreck, but she managed to hold her tongue. Being _her_ department's consultant, it was _her_ job to keep him under the reins and not some outsider's, even though Marks was not exactly that. She sighed. "Those two are the best I've got— I need as much help as possible getting them back in one piece."

A shuffling of papers on his line. "I'm your man, absolutely, Chief Vick," Adam replied after only two seconds of thought. "I can be there—"

Karen heard the rustle of fabric, as if Marks were rolling up a sleeve to check his wristwatch. She bit her lip, not wanting to blurt out the tidbit about Carlton's being injured; she was only considering selfishly, because she wanted him to get here faster. She let her thoughts roll back to their one time meeting, in Carlton's hospital room— how quickly Marks had humbled the entire room of them with the insistence that he be called first— if trouble again reared its monstrous head. He obviously cared about Lassiter's well being, seeming to have a soft spot for her curmudgeonly Head Detective, which was some kind of miracle in of itself— but Marks was also honest and firm when need be, as she recalled. She hoped that he could be an anchor— for Shawn, especially, and began to experience minute relief that she had not only found a replacement for Lightly, but an unyielding ally, one who would bet his life on everyone coming home safely.

She didn't know how she knew all of this after one meeting, not even a full hour— and know even less about Lightly, who had been instrumental in— _Spilled milk, let it go,_ she told herself.

"I'll estimate it at about two hours— but expect me in an hour an half."

Vick blinked repeatedly, unable to stop herself from asking aloud how he really expected to travel nearly 95 miles in a car in only ninety minutes. When there was a pause, she apologized, placing blame on the stress.

"That's why," Marks explained, with Karen filling in, because she could not see him, the lines across his forehead, a tightness to his gentle eyes. Karen rubbed a spot under her eye with two knuckles, shaking out the hand, previously clenched, when she was done. "Keep me up to speed with your progress?"

He had no need to frame it as a question; Vick was more than willing to admit that she had made a keen decision, but she partially wished he would just walk through the front doors right now.

"The killer has been in contact— we've been sent proof of life," she explained carefully. Again, she let the details of the accident slide, not yet mentioning Dr. Williams' unwillingly part in this game.

Marks cleared his throat. From the change of sounds, Vick guessed he was already outside, heading towards his car, or some sort of transportation. "Both?"

"Yes."

"Are they— holding up?"

Vick hesitated; the looks from their eyes had been mostly guarded, though intense emotions were still present. She had no way of knowing for certain, but she told him, "Yes," anyway.

* * *

They guarded the vending machines from other hungry predators, both Henry and Gus taking the chance to eat and drink something not so nutritious or appetizing. Shawn held the squished candy bar that either his father or Gus had handed to him, staring at its shiny blue-white wrapper, not thinking about it or making any moves to open it.

_"You'd better go . . . she's not going to wait forever." _A toss of curled blond hair, gracefully styled, brushing her bare shoulders as Juliet turned away from him, not even glancing back to see if he'd changed his mind. She wouldn't— couldn't ask, not again.

Shawn dropped the candy on the floor, bringing both hands to his face, burying his senses into the clammy scoop of semidarkness. He couldn't, however, flip off his mind, the thoughts continuing to spool. He and Abigail hadn't even— just that one last date, _that_ night. He had been— much more shaken than he'd realized, or allowed himself to be during— and she— she'd been seriously weirded out at her police escorts all night. It had ended quickly, with Abigail doing most of the talking— she had been kidding about serial killer chasing as some "fun" hobby, while he'd been completely serious. He'd mumbled that it wasn't necessarily "fun", but she rushed on, telling him that the past was the past, and that she couldn't handle a present where she was involved with a PI who could put her life at risk at any turn.

"I'm selfish," Abigail told him, though she wasn't apologetic about it. He'd nodded dumbly, unable to form the obvious words, what, any other time, he might have blurted out, regretting them immediately. She was telling him he wasn't worth the risk— that whatever they'd almost had thirteen years prior really had died out there that night on the end of the pier, drifting through the moon's light over the ocean, passed the horizon— gone.

_A mistake— I made a mistake. I chose the wrong one—_ Shawn pressed his palms tighter against his face. He felt cold inside. _What if I— again?_ This time was much more serious than "simple" matters of the heart— this was literally life and death. "I can't choose," Shawn blurted out, his voice muffled by his hands.

Hands gripped his wrists; by the calloused pads of the fingers, Shawn recognized that Henry had him. Henry ripped Shawn's hands from his face, yanking his arms to his sides with that strength that had startled Shawn earlier. "Dad," Shawn muttered hoarsely.

"Buck up, kid, you're needed— like it or not," Henry said firmly, nearly nose to nose with his son.

"But—"

Henry shook his head, knowing at the same time that Shawn was going to continue to protest.

"But— but—" Shawn mumbled. "What— what—"

"Shh." Henry gritted his teeth, forcing himself not tell Shawn to "Shut it," forcing himself not to start yelling; this was the worst possible time for yelling. Shawn was still easily spooked, could bolt at any opening. Henry pulled back a little, still keeping a grip on Shawn's wrists. "You saw those pictures."

Shawn's eyes narrowed. "Is that a trick question, Dad?" he hissed. His lips parted again, likely to angrily rant that he couldn't stop seeing the images, now branded in all their Technicolor horror neatly behind his eyes. A blast of electricity shot from the pit of his stomach into his throat, burning him.

"Shawn," Gus said quietly. He tilted his head at Henry in a subtle signal.

Shawn turned his face away from Henry, noticing for the very first time how pinched Gus's features had become; much earlier, before all this started, Gus had been Gus— his usual best friend. It was much before either had been tainted by the knowledge of— Shawn closed his eyes. Still fresh, tender, it hurt to think about.

_They looked . . . furious, through their pain, discomfort; there was, at times, unguarded fear in both sets of blue eyes. But Jules, Lassie, in spite of the tape on their mouths, their restraints— they looked okay. Not everyday okay, but at the very least, living-breathing okay. And angry. _Shawn gulped. He felt he should be angrier— but there was still a terrible fear in his mouth.

"We beat her once, Shawn," Gus continued quietly, easing into Shawn's thoughts. "I know that— things are different this time around—" Shawn made an indiscernible noise in his throat, something between a guffaw and a croak and cough. "We can figure this out before Yang—"

"Kills them?" Shawn supplied, his voice pitching. "Kills both of them?" He shook his head slowly. "What if— what if last time was a fluke? Or a pass— like, the 'first time's "free"'?"

Henry pursed his lips. "That's not how Yang operates. He— er, she— has a specific objective in mind, a riddle or a game— the target must solve it, or—" Henry clamped his mouth shut, about to say 'else'; this wasn't a detective or an officer his was briefing. His son was once again the target— and the pawns were this time well known to him. He released Shawn's wrists with an apology, aimed at Shawn's hands, which twitched once before refolding at the elbow, pulling back in towards his body, close. "You're the first one who ever—"

_She's got a soft spot for me,_ Shawn thought with a wince._ Because I did that well._ He raised an eyebrow. "You asked about pictures?"

Henry looked over Shawn's face before he answered, noticing how tired he already looked. Though this wasn't, in his mind, the best time for sympathy, he relented, throwing his voice to speak what he hoped was the truth from his ex-wife. "Listen, your mother didn't blame you, for what happened." Henry raised his eyebrows as Shawn's face went blank. "She knows, and I know— and for god's sake," Henry dropped his voice, "Lassiter and O'Hara know— it's not your fault. It's the psycho's fault."

Shawn's blankness slowly molded into confusion, lining his forehead, drawing his eyebrows close to his befuddled eyes— which blazed with a brown-yellow flare. _Is that what— what his father had seen in the pictures?_ His mouth soon joined the bandwagon; he had been certain a responsibility lecture was coming, how, if he were a real cop— He shook his head slightly.

"Did you hear me?" Henry asked, still in a low voice. "You aren't directly responsible for any of the abductions."

_Directly responsible._ Shawn's mouth twisted. There, there was Henry.

Gus's eyes widened, and he scratched the itch to clarify. "What your dad means, Shawn, is that you _aren't_ responsible. Mr. Yang chose _you_, targeted you. You never asked for that."

Henry sighed. "Gus—"

Gus glanced at Henry. "I know that's what you were trying to tell Shawn, Mr. Spencer." It was utterly neutrally, but there was the slightest hint of challenge; it was too subtle for Shawn to catch. The lines around Henry's eyes scrunched momentarily, and then he managed a tight nod. "Right."

Shawn let his eyes slide to the floor. "She chose _me_," he repeated softly. _And if I don't choose one of them, I'll have . . . blood . . . their blood—_ He sucked in breath when Gus squeezed his shoulder.

"Shawn, we can figure this out," Gus said quietly. "We can get both of them back."

Shawn nodded, lifting his head. _That's what I want— what I need to do. "_Both of them, or no deals," he mumbled.

Henry nodded, gesturing they had to make their way back. Gus let go of Shawn's shoulder as Henry's arm swooped in, draping itself awkwardly around Shawn's back and arms. "You're going to have to play this smart, Shawn," Henry told him as they walked. He made a face, sighed. "You're going to have to— get into her head, so you can find out what she wants. So you can manipulate it and earn your objective."

Shawn nodded, allowing his father's words to sink in. Though, over and over, he saw Jules' face, felt a blankness at the tape over her mouth. Still, it made him want to reach in to the photographs, brush the hair back from her forehead, kiss her cheek— gather her to him, protect her. His cheeks flushed hot. The look in her eyes was hard to ignore— a demand, an order. Through space, time, from its memory writ in light, captured on paper, sent to him, he translated the look loosely into words: "Find a way to save us both or never see me again."

* * *

Vick cleared her throat, deciding to launch into what she had to say without hesitation after the three returned, settling in their previous positions before her. It had been enough of a shock for her— they might as well learn what they had to as soon as possible. "Mary Lightly will not be joining us."

"Why not?" Gus asked, feeling Shawn's shoulder stiffen under his hand.

Vick swallowed, pressed her lips together, and pushed on. "It has been brought my attention that— that he is Ms. Yang's alleged accomplice."

"Excuse me?" Gus asked, his eyebrow and voice raising at the same moment. He glanced at Shawn, certain his hearing had just failed him. "Did you—?"

"Are you sure?" Henry cut in, confused.

"I wish I wasn't."

Shawn frowned, hearing their voices continue as he drifted through the past, from the introduction to the profiler to end of the evening, after Yang had been captured. Other than his initial judgmental impression of Mary Lightly, he hadn't managed to scrape together any reason that would make sense that Lightly could be involved with Mr. Yang. Lightly had seemed too dull to be a killer, let alone be associated with one, as an accomplice. He'd had no other hobbies or interests, apparently, other than tracking Mr. Yang for the past thirteen years. Well, that, and reading _Men's Fitness_.

He zoned out long enough to miss what Vick was saying about a replacement. Henry's voice brought him back.

"Adam Marks?" Henry repeated, sitting back in his chair with a look of concentration on his face.

Vick studied his posturing; he had trained her, after all. "You know him?"

Henry squinted, as if Marks were in the room, and then nodded. "I remember him, but I didn't have much contact with him." He nodded again. "About 1994, 1995? As I recall, he was a Senior Level Detective, and when I was a Sergeant, about to retire."

"He was assigned as Lassiter's partner in 1996— about six to eight months before they were invited into the Cavaliere investigation." She watched Henry's face sour at the mention of this name. She turned her attention towards Shawn and Gus. "Do you remember meeting him, about a year ago, after—?"

"Yeah," Gus said. "He was that older guy in Lassiter's hospital room, right?"

"I asked Lassie if that guy was bothering him," Shawn remembered with a nod. For the first time, he really let his thoughts dwell on Lassiter. Much had happened in a year, putting enough distance between the events and the two of them that they'd easily fallen back into their old roles— within seconds, it seemed, once Lassiter no longer coveted anyone's help dealing. Shawn suspected that Juliet had continued to keep tabs on her partner, even forcing her concern and natural cheer upon him whenever it seemed to her that he wasn't all right. He felt a smack of guilt, recalling the Head Detective's smile in the SBPD parking lot, the words admitted that he didn't have to— _"Even it is, Spencer."_

"You did not," Henry stated, though he raised an eyebrow— until there was a trace of smile on Shawn's lips, a stir of its ghosts in his eyes.

He shrugged. "I didn't— get the frequencies of the spirits clearly." He looked into Vick's eyes, noticing for the first time that their new Detective un-friend wasn't in the room. "So he's going to come in to help us?"

Karen nodded. "Apparently he's had some experience with the original case— the Yin Yang Killer's first strike." She left out that he had seemed to be confused over the actual year; it made enough sense to her that he should be frazzled over the phone.

"Good," Henry said. "That's two more on your side."

Karen's brow furrowed. "_Two_ more?" She stared at him. "Henry, you're not—"

"_I_," Henry began sternly, "am not going anywhere." They exchanged a long glare, interrupted by a surprising, "Thanks, Dad," from Shawn.

The young Mr. Spencer's pitiful glance cut her to the heart— though she was in charge, and though she knew the dangers of involving yet another civilian— though at the very least, this was another experienced but retired cop— Vick knew she couldn't deny him. It had been a courtesy before, but she realized that she should consider all the willing help available— even if, in any other case, she would throw out the personally invested on a "conflict of interest". "Very well," she relented, still firm— with an unspoken warning that she could and would yank anyone from this at any time— with the exception of Shawn.

Gus licked his lips. "When will he be here?"

"Ninety minutes, give or take. He's coming in from LA. He was getting to ready to leave as we'd spoken."

As the news sunk in, there was a knock and then the door opened. "Chief," Detective Alexander said, sounding breathless, "we're ninety-five percent certain we've discovered the location of the motel." The three turned around, with Vick raising immediately from her chair. Detective Alexander had reserved a thin smile for Shawn. "Thanks to your tips, also, Mr. Spencer."

Vick gestured and Detective Alexander nodded and left. Shawn sprang out of his chair with the first burst of energy he'd had since trying to run away. He couldn't wait for instructions; his thoughts spun in a tizzy, though the pit of his stomach was tempered with dread. He was out the door, trailing after the red-haired detective, with everyone else behind him— tense that he would run again, or that they might just find their missing.

Shawn was worried though; he gritted his teeth as the red hair turned a corner. Always, always chasing ghosts.

* * *

The backhand raked her eyes with tears, a blow that knocked her to her knees. She'd tried anyway, even with the knowledge that the stun gun was being held at her partner's throat. She'd thought— tried to think, _what would he do? What would Lassiter do, if not injured, or dazed? Fight back— shoot first, ask questions later? _

Juliet was thankful, grateful, that they'd taken him first, releasing him from her— only to recuff their arms behind them— but not to the other. This was after they had been dragged from the bed by the restraints around their legs, both jarred at the descent as they hit the floor, both too dazed to struggle much as their captors pulled them apart. She could only make out the perceived actions from the corner of her eye, guessing by his straggled grunts that Lightly had jerked Lassiter upright by the neck.

Her heart had jumped up into her throat as they were moved; her eyes scurried around the room as if she could catch the attention of something that would have a power to make them stay. She did not want to go anywhere else with Yang and Lightly— and though they were not safe here, and though this place was not known, it still had more similarities of it than anywhere they had yet to go.

Yang was fiercely strong— much stronger than she appeared to be. She appeared as if she didn't know how to throw a punch, or how to block one thrown at her. Though, it hadn't been a punch, but a torso swing; Juliet was wobbly on her still bound legs. She hadn't even remembered getting to her feet.

She had not been as badly injured, but Juliet now found the room spinning, her grip on what she knew and what she had learned slipping, slipping. Wordlessly, Yang glared her hard brown eyes over Juliet, flicking away long enough to signal Mary. Juliet heard the jolt of the stun gun's electricity, then a muffled scream from Lassiter. She cried out, pivoting her body in time to take in the horrible sight of Lassiter's body jerking on the floor, of his eyes sliding closed.

She didn't have time to see anything else.

* * *

Even as they were racing there, running— Shawn already knew they were going to be too late. Yang wasn't in the business of making things easy for him; somehow, she and her accomplice would have been able to remove their hostages to another location within thirty minutes to an hour of their figuring out the name and location of the motel.

He almost didn't want to enter, knowing they wouldn't be here.

They weren't.

There were tells that the room had be occupied; the impression of two adults lying on a comforter on the bed closest to the wall; blood on the floor and in the bathroom, saturating towels. There were strands of blond hair on the pillow on the right, and on the left side, blood on the pillow, and a small pile of vomit on the floor. Shawn zoomed in and out quickly, but was unable to put on his usual puppet show with much finesse. It sounded wooden to him, as he desperately observed the room for signs of where his friends may have been taken.

There was the clue of on the wall, written in red:

_Two Slow. Where Your Fear Will Grow.  
_

And underneath this, a Polaroid duct taped to the headboard in a neat silver square. Someone had hands in their hair, jerking their faces towards camera. They had been here; this space held their smells, along with the sweaty trappings of trickled out fear, the metallic grimace of dried blood, and one other— stale popcorn.

Shawn gasped. This is what _she'd_ smelled like that night, as if she used the movie butter as perfume, scenting the insides of her wrists and the nape of her neck. The salty, stale smell of overcooked popcorn was in her hair; Shawn reeled. Her exhilarated smile, her breathy, dreamy speech: _"Be honest, I'm prettier than you thought I'd be."_ _Chomp, chomp_.

Shawn's mouth twisted. It was the first time since this whole thing began— well, this time, anyway— that Shawn was stabbed by anger, a long, thin needle that pierced him from belly button to spine, clean through. He studied the picture, holding this anger in his mouth as if it were a hot coal. _Who the hell does this bitch think she was? Oh, right, a serial killer. And a kidnapper._ In this room, where his— colleagues? team mates? friends? had been, where he could still "feel" them as if they were still near, Shawn made a promise to himself. A flicker went across his eyes, and the deal was sealed.

How had they managed, especially with Mary shot, (one of the details Vick had revealed to them earlier)? Lassiter and Jules bound together, either awake or asleep would have been a massive handful. "They were unconscious," Shawn fudged, with his eyes closed. "Dragged on the floor, out the door— Then what? Without warning, he bunched a fist and threw it into the air, narrowly missing Gus, who managed to dodge. They were taken out of here like pieces of trash— pawns. Shawn's stomach twisted. His usual self didn't lean towards violence, but he knew that he would welcome a fit of rage now, allowing himself to pummel the inanimate objects in this room— crime scene— and then would also be satisfied to crumple on the floor, drained of energy.

Shawn opened his eyes. _No. I can't. I can't do that. I need every ounce of strength available— because I've got to find them. _


	7. Chapter 6: Over Your Shoulder

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note:I know, I know, looooooong time from last update till this one.

Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

References will be made to my story** "Ask For Another Day"**, as it was suggested that this one be partly "sequel-ish" to that one, but it is NOT REQUIRED to read that one first. The references made will be vague or will be explained in context to what is currently going on. The main reason for these references is because of the use of an OC, Adam Marks, from **"Ask For Another Day"**, and I make the references because I want to show that he has an established history with the _Psych_ characters, which will be important for the direction of this story.

##########################################################################################################################

**Chapter Six: I Am Just Over Your Shoulder**

**###################################################################################################################**

# # #

"How? HOW?" Shawn yelled, turning another rapid circle in place, still inside the room. _How was it possible that she could have—she moved so fast, she moved like wind, taking what she wanted, yanking the roofs off of houses, leaving a trail of scattered debris—or bodies—in her wake?_ Spinning this fast, only once with his eyes closed, Shawn again took in the details of the motel room. And he replayed the details of working side by side with Mary six months ago, not exactly trusting him— "Why couldn't I see it then?"

"See what?" Gus asked, putting his arm out to snag his spinning friend, but changing his mind. Shawn growled to himself in frustration, and shook his head. Gus raised the hand to back of his head. He caught Vick staring at them with a tight, determined look on her face. "Shawn, see what?" Gus asked with more urgency, dropping his voice as he stepped closer to Shawn. This time, he forced himself to grab Shawn, halting him on yet another endless pass of the small space.

Shawn jarred at the stop, blinking to rid his eyes of the dizziness forming behind them. "That he was playing us—he was in cohorts with her the whole time," Shawn seethed. _I got a weird vibe from him; it was a gut thing. Shouldn't have let it go._

Gus shook his head. "We don't know that." He earned a sharp look from his friend for his honesty. "Look, I know Lightly was eccentric then, but—"

"Save it, Gus," Shawn hissed.

"Shawn, how were we supposed to _know_?" Gus had put his mouth to Shawn's ear to hiss this; he knew he couldn't risk saying it too loudly.

Shawn whipped his eyes toward Gus's, his expression frozen between a look saying he should have known because he was Shawn Spencer and a look saying he couldn't have known because he was not really psychic.

"I rest my case," Gus muttered.

"You're a piece of work," Shawn muttered back.

"I am?" Gus raised an eyebrow. "I am?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I heard you but I can't believe you're saying that to me."

"Why not?"

"Because _you're_ the piece of work, Shawn."

Shawn's lips almost betrayed him, the whole situation, with a small grin. "I am?" he retorted playfully. "I am?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"Mr. Spencer!" Vick cut in to their low banter. She'd had her back to them and hadn't caught their whispered exchange, but turned to face him now. "I want you to go to the scene of the abduction," Vick told Shawn. "See if you can get a read on—" She raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to argue with her when he looked back, resistant.

He took the bait. "It's not going to do anything," he challenged.

"And _why_ is that?"

Shawn actually took a physical step backwards—her tone stung his face like a slap.

"Are you withholding valuable evidence from me, Mr. Spencer? The missing pieces that could get my detectives rescued before they're _killed_?"

Shawn flinched again; the pitch of Vick's voice was rising steadily, dangerously. He didn't want to tell her that going there would be a waste of time, because Yang left clues from scene to scene—and from the first—and even second, if the young doctor could be counted as a clue—then this third scene was the one to tell him where to go. . . . (Plus, the second and third clues were from the same scene, except now the room was vacant, and that was if the doctor _wasn't_ a clue—) But he had no idea what this clue meant. It had was having its desired affect: driving him and the cops up the wall and scaring the hell out of them. They had come so close, only to be so far . . . or had they?

Shawn knew that a perimeter had been set, outside and in; the outlying areas were being searched, the dingy basement; a few groups must be checking the other businesses nearby. Shawn had a niggling feeling that they were both looking in the right place and that they were way off base. She could be right here under their noses, watching them—but Lightly might be acting as guard somewhere else; it ached to be so wrong, to know nothing at such a time.

He stared at the wall again. There was _that_.

He clenched his fists. Reflexively, he had to look over his shoulder, as if Yang were somewhere behind him, just out of sight yet managing to see everything clearly.

_Could it be true?_ The room was empty, certainly, but could there be a feed from a tiny camera?

_Where would his fear grow?_ Shawn blocked out Vick's threats as he looked carefully through the room's contents for the hundredth time, hoping to see something off, something—anything—he might have missed. He chided himself for taking so long to get his head in the game—and worried how much more the detectives would suffer because of it.

He acknowledged Gus's reassuring shoulder squeeze with a slight nod; without Gus, he thought his resolve might crumble.

Gus leaned in, whispering, "Do you have a lead?"

Shawn frowned tightly.

"Then why not do what Vick says? She's pretty passionate about it." Gus resisted to comment on Shawn's burning glare, the one that asked _what_ said _he_ wasn't?

Shawn had listened to some of it; Vick _did_ sound pretty worked up. But these were her detectives too. It was impossible—unless they were all like Yang and had no heart—not be afraid in some general way of the outcome of this game. One for which the rules continued to change. Shawn figured he couldn't rely completely on what he had learned last time around; maybe her short stint in prison or the mental institution had affected Yang.

He frowned. He really didn't care why she was the way she was. Then, or now. All he cared about was putting her back behind glass—and setting himself up as a wall between her and the ones he cared about. Shawn breathed in through his nose. He could take that, right? She did have the upper hand now but one day soon she'd be back where she belonged.

"_No, the beginning!" Yang said excitedly to Shawn's retort about locking her up in a cell with padded walls, about that being the end. "I'm going to write a book! About us. And I want you to write the foreword." She'd grinned, looking just like the shadow she was sitting in, only with eyes. _

If Shawn had really had the slightest inkling that she would . . . a chill ran through him. He would have—what? He would have run away from town? Thus, _maybe_, sparing further injury to anyone close to him? Would it have worked? Or would she just . . . done what she'd done anyway, to lure him back? Was it inevitable, were his friends doomed either way?

Something sharp attacked Shawn from the inside, a pain like a slice from a razor blade dragged against the inside of his arm. He couldn't let himself get caught up; he had to fight. Jules and Lassie were still alive and would be counting on him to come through. Or counting the hours until he failed. Shawn found his voice.

# # #

When she woke, her entire body ached, even her hair down to its roots. Juliet's fingers twitched; a shockwave rang through her, offering the smallest clarity for a few seconds—her fingers were alone, not touching anything.

"Mmm," she mumbled, lowly, pressure at her forehead forcing her to keep her eyes closed. Juliet held her breath, listening for any other sounds of life. She had not quite come all the way back, but was without the complete understanding of this; without meaning to, she began to panic. _Where . . . where is he?_ Her breath huffed in and out quickly through her nose until she felt lightheaded, enough to make her slip away again for a short time.

# # #

Mary was unnerved, though he was doing his damnedest not to let it show. The male detective had awoken, his eyes a bright, aware blue above the silver duct tape across his mouth. He was sitting upright in the chair the pair had handcuffed him to, and was watching Mary's movements like a hawk with its talons sharpened, though instead of talons, the detective's eyes were poised as steel. Mary felt his spirits dampened the slightest by the anger in Lassiter's eyes, how they followed him in his shuffled pacing. Mary gulped; this was the very first time he'd considered losing, the "what ifs" should the pair get caught, any and all consequences. Though he would only ever admit it to Yang, Mary enjoyed the brief power he held over Lassiter, knowing Santa Barbara's Head Detective had not liked him from the beginning, but had needed his aid in the investigation. He'd done what he had to do.

The fury running out of Lassiter's eyes bore an almost liquid fluidity, forcing Mary to fear that if stopped and stared back, he'd surely be swept away in the current of Lassiter's angry planning.

Mary wondered, among several sharp thoughts, if the detective blamed him for his partner's pains; he had taken care not to be the one who hurt Juliet O'Hara, leaving that all up to Yang (as if he'd had a choice in that matter, either). He recalled now, in the flurry of the afternoon attack, that the injured Head Detective had shown a solicitous stance towards his partner—actions Mary had not seen during the day six months ago he'd spent with the two. Though, Mary reflected, O'Hara had not been in any danger then. He gritted his teeth hard to bite back a threatening shudder; perhaps he had underestimated Lassiter in the "caring for others" department. He'd just been a jerk—mean and unnerved. Still, Mary was as used to this kind of defensive behavior, especially coming from men, as he could be; his odd demeanor had developed early. Women usually showed their displeasure immediately or were too polite to do so.

Yang was different. He almost smiled under his discomfort.

Unwittingly, Mary's eyes flicked to Lassiter's—a bad mistake that Mary had to fight to correct; the undertow in Lassiter's eyes was very, very strong. It spoke forebodingly of his long fingers and brute strength of his hands and arms roughly cuffing Mary's hands behind his back after shoving his face in the dirt. Mary could hear the Head Detective's dangerous whisper in his ears, though the event had not yet happened—but it rang loudly of warnings, of pain and payback for not only getting the better of him, but for any harm that had come to his partner.

Mary huffed out a breath, yanking his eyes from Lassiter's. In place of a penance, Mary stalked away towards Detective O'Hara to check on her status. It was no good, he thought as he walked towards her, that he was regaining a conscience. But he wondered if he went out of fear for what Lassiter might do to him more than because he was feeling remorseful. Away from Lassiter's prying eyes, the thrill of this whole affair bubbled back up from Mary's toes to his head, like quick, cheap champagne. It was a nice feeling—perhaps artificial—but he went with it.

Juliet O'Hara was pale, her breathing shallow with her eyes still closed. Mary's second shocking of Lassiter had gone to the detective's shoulder, but Yang had literally gone for the throat, changing her mind in the last second to zap O'Hara in the back of the neck. Mary felt a little sick looking her over now; he knew she had started to wake up once but had nearly immediately fallen back into whatever state she had been.

# # #

Because Henry was no longer with the police in an official capacity, Vick had ordered him to stay at the police station while they ran off to the motel to hopefully find their missing detectives.

Henry knew, like Shawn had known, that they were going to be too late. Yang was way too smart to just . . . Henry frowned, thinking about the supposed ending six months prior. He chewed on the logic of Yang's return, and her choice of victims. He figured that he could easily see Juliet in Yang's line of fire because it was hard to ignore the long distance magnetic attraction between his son and the pretty, smart-as-a-whip blonde detective. However, Henry could also see his son striking out with her; he was fickle when it came to long term.

And some of these women were keepers; he knew. His heart ached a little for Maddie, even now.

There was something about Shawn's body language when he was standing next to Detective O'Hara; hers in return—something natural, despite the pair being utter opposites, something still "fit". Henry sighed. He didn't really understand attraction, not even after all these years. Or why people fell out of love. He pursed his lips.

By the time she'd called him out, Yang had already been too close to Shawn, watching his son, watching the police, making sinister plans—Henry scowled away a shiver.

He couldn't, not for the life of him, reason why Yang had grabbed Detective Lassiter as well. Most of the hostages taken from previous Yang strikes were women—strangers, innocents, anyone who may have crossed paths with the target, even in the most shallow way. Like the waitress who had served Shawn his cereal on that day when this all began. Certainly, Yang had postured this difficult "choice" that Shawn had to make—pick one to live, one to die. He frowned again. He knew, like Shawn knew, what the easy answer was—

But he also knew right along with his son that Shawn would never choose death.

Was this . . . what Yang was counting on? This time, the shiver broke through, and Henry was glad to be alone in the office, for once. That if Shawn did choose Juliet, and Lassiter died because of it, that it would be impossible for the unlikely pair of fake psychic and real detective to ever be together, to ever explore what could be a . . . challenging but life long love?

Again, he was glad to be alone. He admitted that it wasn't fair to fit his son with the dimensions of his and Maddie's relationship—but he couldn't help but see the parallels of one party being forever in love while the other forever ignored those affections, those small gestures . . . all because of a poor outcome. Unrealistic expectations. One of them making a choice that was do or die: the career advancement or your family. A new life or the one already built. One or the other. Henry shook his head hard. He knew he had to get his head back into the game; Shawn was in dire need of extra help.

Instead of going, Vick had "assigned" Henry the small task of waiting here for former SBPD and later LAPD Sergeant Adam Marks' arrival.

The two had never met, despite working in the same department for more than a few years. Then, there wasn't a need to know—or know of—everyone you were working with. What mattered was getting the work done. Sometimes things were swept under the rug—though Henry would have never accused the Chief of purposely letting discrepancies slide. But somethings, things happened.

He remembered the rumor of this certain detective requesting rookies for partners. Henry wanted as little to do with rookie-raising as was possible. He already had a son and that was trouble enough; it had been hard to come to terms then that his young son both hadn't and had had the natural instincts to become a good cop. Henry had groomed him intensively, using the better part of his childhood as training ground for cop life. Still, Henry stood by his decisions—as well as his disappointments.

But what was happening now could easily happen to a cop. Had happened; cops were "easy" targets for rage, stupid pranks, any number of conditions and rituals the bad elements came forward with. Everything was always someone else's fault. Or if no one was at fault for problems, then strategies, theories, wits, wills had to be tested. There always had to be a winner. And someone always had to lose.

He pursed his lips. This determination was "black and white"—it was so perfectly Mr. Yang. There was no line in the middle; things were either, or, but never either/or. Yes. No. Live. Die.

Silently, Henry mockingly thanked Karen for leaving him behind to over think. He figured that the team would be back to the station long before Marks arrived, though they would have to catalog whatever it was they found. Henry hoped it was something useful, no false leads or anything so cryptic, it was beyond his son's natural abilities to work it out.

Henry's mind drifted back to the events of a year prior, a time he often didn't care to think much on. A terror time, that was the best way to remember it. Shawn had been snatched during a dangerous, secretive case and because of it, Henry had found himself becoming closer to the young Head Detective, because, at that time, Lassiter had been running scared. Less like the grumpy "old man" that he often came off as and more like a frightened child—who reminded Henry too much of his son, or even his wayward brother Jack. Henry had developed the oddest need to protect the man who was not family, hardly even a friend, because he was in such dire need—because, Henry amended, he was great distraction from his son's abduction. Henry had known that he needed to keep Lassiter in one piece if he was ever going to see his son again, alive. It might not have been fair to Lassiter, but as it turned out, their minimal friendship had stuck. Even after things started to get back to normal. But Henry knew it was still there, and he figured Lassiter knew it too.

For the first time, he allowed a little worry for the ki—for Lassiter. He shook his head. He had already let himself worry about Juliet; it was almost automatic, as if she was somehow already part of the family. He smirked to himself. He hoped he'd get the chance to embarrass Shawn in public with this information, spinning it the way that Detective O'Hara was like a daughter, or something equal.

Though, even with her being a nice girl and likely the best catch that would ever cross Shawn's waters, it was difficult to picture his son settling down. It was difficult to picture him in a relationship that lasted longer than a couple weeks. He'd gone and blown it with that Abigail Lytar, the former high school crush—but Henry could hardly fault her for choosing life over the potential of becoming a target in one of Shawn's many dangerous cases. And danger did flock to Shawn. Or gallop. Or rush. Even when he wasn't looking for it.

Wasn't his family getting strange new additions? He had a son, an ex-wife, and Gus who was practically Shawn's adoptive brother. He had a younger brother, Jack, and now a sometimes surrogate brother who may or may not occasionally need protecting—much unlike his actual brother, who should just be arrested or driven out of town once and for all. And then there was new daughter business . . . Again, Henry "thanked" Karen.

He wished this Adam Marks would just drive faster.

He thumbed through the Polaroids, each in individual evidence bags, but the similarity to the one he had received last year with Shawn's face on it made it hard to focus. He really needed a distraction, those things seemed to work.

# # #

They'd commandeered an interview room in the station, as well as a whiteboard (a poor substitute for their clear one at the Psych office, but it would have to do) and a plain black marker. Shawn went to work immediately, writing out the last clue they'd been "given" by Yang. Shawn had requested a breather from the police presence; he wanted to be alone with Gus so he could try to clear his head—but he'd given the excuse that he needed to clear the air with the psychic energies he was trying to correspond with. Vick had granted him a minimum of a half an hour, uninterrupted, because he had done as Gus had said and went with her to the scene of Lassiter's and Juliet's abduction.

It had been as eerie and hollow as the room—buzzing with mockery: "Look what you _just_ missed!" Though Shawn could not "feel" otherworldly things, these places where he knew Yang—and Lightly—had been seemed disturbed, evil; her crime scenes were the only ones Shawn felt this way about. Both cars were empty; Shawn glanced forlornly at the pile of the detectives' required objects, squatting down as if to read some "energy" coming off them. _Dead weight,_ Shawn thought. They'd been relieved of all weapons, traces of their identities, as if they were less likely to fight back without them.

Shawn hadn't been able to believe this could be true. He thought the criminal pair would have a formidable match on their hands as soon as his friends could get free.

Unless, that was, there was another threat. If there was a . . . bomb. Or if . . . his life was somehow used against theirs— Shawn closed his eyes, trying to summon humor to relieve the incredible terror that might flatten him against the ground. But he "heard"—imagined—two familiar voices asking for his help—one eagerly, one more reluctant.

Shawn had not wanted to start an argument with Vick, who was watching him like a hawk as he combed through the scene. It must be hard, he thought, remembering her anger at the empty motel room. She was the one who had learned of their abduction first, despite the action being directed at him. Shawn supposed it was a horrible "thumb to nose" at her, at the police, even indirectly—any time one of her own was threatened. And he and Gus were, indirectly, "some" of her own, too. He scoured the scene for anything, even for a clue that was long past: that Yang was planning to take them to that motel room. If he could find that, he might be able to establish a pattern; there would be more than just words—or pictures—in the room that smelled of fear and stale popcorn.

_Two slow._ To whom did the "two" refer to? Was it obvious—Jules, Lassiter? Or was it another pair—like Mary and Yang? Himself and Gus? Someone else and their counterpart? Shawn tried hard to wrack his brains for answers. He'd tried reading the message as one sentence, but he kept pausing after slow, as if he just had to break. _Two slow where your fear will grow._ The only way he could get the break out of it was to repeat the sentence until it became singsong—songlike. Every word was monosyllabic. There were five W's, four O's: WOWOWOWOW. Or was it: WOW OW OW OW? Shawn wrinkled his nose at that variation; it made him picture the detectives being hurt, and he didn't want to think about that.

Two

Slow

Where

Your

Fear

Will

Grow

One T, one S, one Y, one A. STAY. _Stay? _

One G. One U. One F. One H.

Three L's. Three E's.

LELELE. EEL. ELL. _Yell? _

Four R's.

RORORORO. _(H)orror?_

One I, he'd missed. There wasn't just two of any letter. Shawn felt a pang.

Who was the "I" in this scenario? Was it him? Or was it Yang? And only twos of letters were missing. It felt cruel, especially if he were the "I"—because it must mean that Jules and Lassie were the missing "letters".

Shawn omitted the word "Two" from the puzzle. Slow where your fear will grow._ I know where the slow fear grows. I know where your slow fear grows. Fear will grow where you're too slow. Low here our ear ill row. Row ill ear our here low._

_Fear will grow where you're too slow. Two slow. I will grow where you're too slow. Slow where your fear will grow. Grow will fear your where slow. Two. Too. Your two will grow slow fear where._

Was it a question, after all? Was she testing him, asking him a question to which she already knew the answer to? He sighed. It was just like her; this made him worry. Shawn barely knew Yang but yet he felt he knew her better than many . . . except, that was, for Lightly. What a sick bastard, he thought, going to her side just because he wouldn't give racquetball a fair shot. He shook his head, and ignored another one of Gus's many "What?"'s, behind him. Which one of these combinations was that right one?

Was he finding words where there weren't any at all? Finding a message that was not really there?

Was he supposed to be afraid; were they? Was he supposed to slow down somewhere he started to feel fear, was he too slow in getting there to stop Yang? Grow will fear . . . two. Where slow your. Your where slow. Wear? Wear down slow? Your two will grow slow. Fear where.

Shawn thought about this latest combination with trepidation. All this time, he'd been omitting that pause; what if it was truly important? Where could people "grow slow"?

In water? Drowning? In ice? Freezing? In quicksand? Suffocating? Could they be in some airless—or limited oxygenated place? Could they be somewhere they were being drugged, regularly? Like a mental hospital?

Shawn thought about the word "grow". Was it too obvious to think of plants? People grew too. They grew when they aged, when they gained life experiences, when they changed for the better, or even for the worse. Was it considered wilting, then? He bit his lips to refocus. And often, the change was over time—slow. But plants continued to niggle at him. Dirt. Earth. Soil. He felt sick when he considered people "growing slow" because they had been buried alive. Dirt in their mouths, rocks, chunks of roots.

This might be nothing at all. This might be just a clever way of distracting him, of wasting his time while scaring the hell out of him. All while . . . but where would Yang have taken them? What did she want with them anyway?

"Where does fear grow?" Shawn asked aloud.

"In your heart?" Gus replied, seeming to wonder himself. "Or in your head?" He had watched Shawn's progress, listening to Shawn's mutterings, and tried to throw out suggestions whenever he could. But he was just as frustrated; for all they knew, the clue could be meaningless—a waste of time, as Shawn had already pointed out. "What are you thinking, Shawn?"

Shawn turned from the whiteboard and said the words aloud about his speculations about what "two" = 'people' + "growing slow" could mean. He spoke without resorting to a panicky tone, but it was because he felt they were at a dead end. He felt like the worst fake psychic ever.

# # #

Juliet had arrived into her own flesh, spiraling down from some gray cloud formation, landing with a wet 'smack', like a kiss. Her eyes sprang to their open positions; it was another blank room. No windows. From here, it looked half the size as the last one; she flinched as she remembered the pain at the back of her neck.

When she tried to move her head, her whole body groaned; after a minor fit of panic, Juliet realized her body had been immobilized from the outside—not from within. She was seated, numbed, her limbs pulled away from her harshly and held to something. She remembered.

She reached her fingers into the air behind her as far as they would go, not far. Nothing. There was a tilt in her perception to the left as something rattled or broke. _Where was her partner?_

She couldn't see him and she couldn't feel him . . . or hear him. She blamed herself . . . _if he were dead. . . ._ Juliet's breath hitched, and then an involuntary sob fell out of her nose. _Too weak,_ she thought, not wanting to offer up herself to Yang and the profiler as fresh meat—but she knew that she was stone cold terrified not knowing a thing about her partner's fate.

_What was I thinking?_ she chided herself among her thoughts of fear. She could hear her partner's muffled cry, remembering his body shaking before she, too, was tossed to the inside of darkness. Juliet realized suddenly that, at this moment, she wanted to hear Lassiter snap at her, demand to know 'just what the hell she was thinking pulling a stunt like that?' She remembered them clearly, in the car before the accident, her exaggerated eye roll at her partner's griping; tears sprang to her eyes. _Give anything, anything to have that back._ As her tears came, as a lump grew in her throat, her worry took over her ears, flooding them with a rush. She was still scared for herself, but her horror that she may have caused her partner's death was making it very hard for her to think about anything else.

Juliet cried silently, trying to stop. She didn't see either Yang or the profiler in the room from where she sat, but that didn't mean they weren't here. Possibly collecting information to use against Shawn. _Shawn. _She dropped her head. She eventually calmed herself down by insisting that Lassiter was much tougher than that—and she knew it, so it wasn't that difficult to believe—and that at the very worst, he'd been injured further, but not killed.

# # #

Lassiter winced, recognizing the sound of a woman nearby crying. He couldn't see her, but guessed by process of elimination that it was not Yang. At first, he was torn up by anger, wanting to give an order for his partner to stop blubbering—then the sound froze him, because he realized that Juliet was not typically prone to fits of crying. The sound of its attempted silence hurt him anyway; he wanted her to stop because it made him uncomfortable, and because it made him angrier—less at her and more at what could have been done to drive her to it. As soon as he thought it, Lassiter felt a slow, hot flame of anger rise from his navel to his throat. It infuriated him that O'Hara was getting hurt and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it or to shield her from its occurring at all. In any situation, he always did, thrusting himself into any line of danger just to spare her the slightest pain, like the time when they'd opened the crate of wild marmosets.

The only other woman he'd wanted to protect so badly had been Victoria.

Lassiter swallowed. He knew he didn't love Juliet, but that the overprotective "instinct" that he'd developed for his junior partner had arisen from their constant togetherness as partners; from the way she'd rubbed off her so-sunny disposition onto him; how, he knew, though he'd _never, ever_ admit it, that he would just about die before losing it. Or her. But still, he didn't love her. He felt in no way romantically inclined towards O'Hara—yet having her as his friend was somehow so much better. It set his resolve—he couldn't—wouldn't—lose that.

Lassiter turned as much as he could in his chair, ignoring any pain that surfaced as he moved his head in the direction of her sounds. He couldn't quite see her, though he could sort of make out an outline of the chair she must be seated in. He didn't like this; strangely, being apart like this was much worse than the uncomfortable, much too intimate way they'd been before. He still couldn't see her, couldn't look in her eyes, couldn't see if there were any cuts or bruises on her face.

He was annoyed by the wad of cloth shoved in his mouth and by the length of tape across it. He knew he had to do something to make her understand him, but he figured the task would be near impossible. He decided to repeat her name, even if it was entirely non-pronounceable this way, until he was able to get through to her and she settled down.

It seemed to have an almost immediate effect; she stopped breathing to listen, recognizing even a small bit of him—enough to put her at momentary ease.

He sounded mad at her; she really appreciated that; pretending she couldn't hear the frustration or fear.

# # #

Violet tilted her head back until she felt the delicious strain of her throat. The back of her head rested against the cool post in the hall. She liked being underground, knowing that her captives were within a couple steps; with a turn of a key in a lock, she could be there, see them.

And Shawn hadn't the slightest clue where they were. Yang grinned; she knew he had it in him to figure it out, but she wanted it to be harder, hurt more, make him wonder and ponder and seethe until he wanted to die.

Her grin widened. He didn't even yet know what that felt like.

She liked to stretch her neck like this because it reminded her of classic horror films, of instant slices across necks, of ear-shattering soundtracks, of silent screaming. When movie monsters were almost always male, when no one even suspected what a terror the fairer sex could be, given the right mental tools. It reminded her of the first time she'd brushed her lips to death's icy cheek, liking what she took away from the kiss.

Her timing was everything; again, they had a head start, leaving a thin line (the clue) in their wake. She pictured her words in Shawn's mouth, biting back when he tried to sort them out. It was both difficult and a joy to delay her pleasure—how badly she wanted to see Shawn Spencer face to face again. The waiting was part of the process, necessary, needed. When they were finally together—when he knew escape was . . . she sighed. She really wanted to see that knowing look in his eyes, that broken look—he had to know it was someday going to end.

Violet ran her fingertips up her neck, pressing her lips together. She remembered acutely his odor cool hair gel and cold sweat—he smelled of no man she could remember. She wanted to taste even a teaspoonful of his fear—but if she was really honest with herself, she wanted much more.

This time, couldn't she get just a little bit closer, touch him? Learn what his clothes felt like as they sat on his skin? She wanted to dig her fingernails into a forearm, a bicep, bite him on the mouth as her tongue slid inside; she would be pleased at the sharpness of his own, the way he would jerk back from her face; how she loved to chase.

She really knew him, she thought, more than anyone else knew him. More than his father, his best friend, his ice statue of a mother, more than either of those detectives under her thumb. Violet expected bloodshed, expected some of the outsiders' missions in this game would be completed long before the game itself would; how she'd wanted to stop that doctor's heart! She chewed on the loss, hoping there could be a trade somewhere up the road. _I can be patient,_ she thought. _Make up for it . . . with lots of little pieces. _It delighted her to imagine herself in the role of reaper—she and Shawn Spencer were really so very alike.


	8. Chapter 7: Mind Full of Wicked Designs

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Also don't own reference to Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_, or the 1980s horror movie _Aenigma, _Puma, or references to Clint Eastwood or his films.

Credit and thanks to Maja Windscryer for use of this delightful line (direct quote): "Never play games of chance with your math book. They totally cheat."

Author's Note: Long wait, I know. Life has been very busy lately! Reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are highly welcome and appreciated. Thank you! Hope you enjoy. :)

To **meta scythe**: I hope you like the Lassiter whump!

########################################################################################################

**Chapter Seven: I've Got A Mind Full Of Wicked Designs**

########################################################################################################

Inside, just inside, she could make out the muffled sounds of the detectives losing just bits of their self-control. She breathed in a dank dirt smell, feeling clean. For a little bit, she lost herself in the lullaby of their suffering.

She liked the different natural elements which were blood-colored though they never bled: crimson autumn leaves ripening on stilled summer trees, the darkest maroons at twilight, a few dozen long stemmed red roses, Cardinals, the wattles and combs on roosters, the furs of foxes as they dashed around the peeling bark of forests, blood oranges, blood moons, the red desert rocks of Moab, Utah, where she had once spent time, fires, Penstemons—Scarlet Bulger—native of California, dyes—archil, madder, carthamus, kermes, cochineal, and Brazilwood, the Tawny Emperor butterfly. She was tickled by these things—how complete they were as objects, how full of life they were while they were already a proper color of human death, when drops of blood were spilled around. The quieter things would wilt, curl up, disintegrate, go to sleep. Humans were hardly like these, keeping their blood and thoughts on the inside. Too many of them fought back.

Violet considered this, liking to be an agent of completion still able to appreciate walking death in those living things. She considered herself as capable of death dealing as if she had been the child of morticians, understanding early that death was a part of life.

_That's what everyone wants, a perfect resolution. _

Violet thought of what she wanted of her own perfect ending. It was a tad cliché, she understood, a little too _Romeo and Juliet_, but if this was to be her final execution, then she considered having the one she . . . appreciated most in the world doing away with himself first because he could not bear a world without her in it too delicious to discard.

Would she, then, upon awaking, after kissing him fervently to get him to awaken—knowing he never would—find her hands upon a dagger, filled up with nervous glee, smiling as she plunged the blade into her navel, smiling through pain as her blood seeped out, as it reached him, soaked him, as they lied there reaching perfect completion to the complex riddle of their romantic hits and misses?

Yang frowned, inadvertently wondering if Shawn were to just lie down and die like that, if it wouldn't be someone else beside him, someone who knew how to express a passionate grief, who wouldn't take her own life for the same reason he would have taken his.

The dream was over. Yang tucked it back, folded neatly, into her skin. She reached into her pocket for the key.

# # #

There came to him the partial flashes of the seconds before the crash; Lassiter remembered his split second attempts to steer clear, jerking the wheel so that the passenger side door was a barricade between himself and sudden danger—though he hadn't meant, neither consciously or subconsciously, to put his partner in the path of injury or death. He'd meant to escape into the space not blocked off by the oncoming vehicle, to maneuver the Crown Vic so that, if they were hit, at most it would be the passenger side rear door, the bumper—damage small so that there was still a chance to drive off unscathed. But karma was a bitch anyway, wasn't it? _His_ had been the side rammed hardest; he had not been quick enough to get them safe. Not daring enough; he hadn't enough time.

He wondered, as his head pounded mercilessly at the memory alone, if O'Hara seethed at him for yet another vast indiscretion; what if? What if she _had_ been the one getting hit first? How could he defend his defensive driving, even among the rush of adrenaline, if he had hurt her with his rashness as his mind beat his options out in milliseconds? But it hadn't happened this way at all. He couldn't remember climbing out of the car, but he remembered getting to his feet in a daze, slipping his hand into his jacket, brushing his holster as he undid the snap.

The door opened soundlessly; a change of wall space. Neither of them could see the door from where they were seated, but Juliet started when Yang's form turned the corner, flinging her body into what had been a blank wall before her. She froze in mid hiccup, sucking in a shallow breath through her nostrils, holding it in place, waiting. Juliet quickly scanned Yang for weapons; her hands were empty, but it was too hard to tell from her stance if she had other weapons under her clothes. So far, Juliet had only seen the stun guns.

Juliet had been listening to her partner's mumblings, trying to get control of herself. The flood of tears she had let loose would be of no help to anyone; she was grateful for even his limited voice. She couldn't exactly make out what he was trying to say, other than the sounds she gleaned as her first and last name, over and over. Juliet. O'Hara. The syllables mushed, but she was touched by his efforts. Though she was looking him up to for strength during this ordeal, she would have considered him completely soulless if he wasn't the least bit scared, or if he'd managed to hide his fear entirely from her. She guessed that he wasn't likely to fall apart as she had, but she had already felt the stress bound tight in his muscles, felt his body shake as if he were too cold. Juliet hoped that he could also draw strength from her, even though she was terrified at the outcome.

Yang was now staring at her coolly; Lassiter could not see her coming. Juliet swallowed her shock and shot a garbled warning through her tape. As she passed her, Yang slapped Juliet's face.

Lassiter froze during the mix of unpleasant noise, going silent. He had not heard her enter, nor could he see her—or whoever it might be—but he could hear a rustle of fabrics as someone came toward him. He tried to jerk his head in the direction of the slight noise, to prepare himself. Her hand came at him like a rock thrown with perfect aim. She slapped him as hard as she could, ignoring his recovery from the first blow as he struggled to get out of her range. Yang came around in front of Lassiter's chair, hitting his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, hitting crazily, without taking any pauses, without showing any emotion in her eyes.

Lassiter twisted his head, trying to anticipate her blows. He could now hear Juliet protesting angrily under her tape, could hear her chair strain as she tried to free herself. He knew she hated to be helpless; he felt the same way. Amid a string of curses he couldn't say aloud, Lassiter wondered how many bruises Yang was going to add to the substantial collection on his face already, if she was going to draw blood soon. Each time she hit a certain spot on his cheek—a remnant of their first attack—Lassiter felt a _ping_ hit the back of his skull. Enough of those and he'd be out cold, he thought, still trying to dodge Yang's open palm. He wondered if there was a reason for this sudden assault; a dark hope jumped into his throat that he had been heard, even though so muffled, somewhere outside this room.

He had no sense of where they were now; had no idea who might be hanging around, but he hoped it was someone, anyone, especially the too curious, meddling type of person he usually got the pleasure of chasing away from crime scenes.

Lassiter shut his eyes as Yang's blows became further erratic; she seemed to target his nose for a succession, as if waiting on a great spill of blood. In these painful moments, Lassiter's stomach tightened; he had selectively forgotten this woman killed people, had done so off and on for nearly fourteen years.

Mission accomplished; Lassiter felt a warm burst dribble out of his nose. He saw Yang pull her hand back, holding it for some seconds to admire the work of her own hands. He swallowed hard, seeing a grin take her features, all but her eyes. She liked the looks of his blood on her hands, Lassiter realized slowly; in the back of his skull, a _ping_. He sniffled wetly, worried; his nose was the only outlet not blocked from which he needed to get air. Blood went up his nose canal. Just a few drops.

Lassiter found himself relieved, in a detached way, that his partner was not privy to this exchange. She had no doubt heard it; it made her angry and anxious, he guessed. But what he saw here—what he didn't see—in Yang's eyes made him want to fight harder for at least one of them to get out of this alive. Juliet, it had to be Juliet. If there was a choice, Lassiter decided, she had to be the one to live. He had to make sure of it, above his own fears. He chose her.

But he didn't want to give in if there was a chance they could _both_ be spared. He fixed Yang with a disoriented but hard stare; he wasn't going to give her the chance to kill either of them, if he had even half a chance to get them safe. Really make it, that next time. He had his partner to salvage, his reputation to protect, the law to uphold. It felt good for a moment to hold onto his courage; still, just under his shirt along his armpits and down his back his skin was moist with sweat. For another moment, his mind reeled as if he were tumbling solitarily into blank, bottomless space.

Lassiter suspected—even though Yang had already taunted them with it—that Chief Vick would do everything in her power to retrieve them safely, but what he wondered most was would she risk saving their lives over apprehending Yang and her wicked accomplice? He knew . . . she had her job to do; still, he wasn't made of stone. He didn't want to consider himself nor his partner expendable. He suspected also, though he had to think of it with a veiled sneer, that Spencer—for all his flamboyant faults would insist on getting the both of them back alive . . . but Lassiter knew who Spencer would chose. _He'd goddamn better well,_ Lassiter thought dangerously, risking a tilt of head towards his partner. _He'd goddamn better well pick the woman he loves._

It was impossible _not_ to make this choice; even Lassiter had chosen his partner as the winning game piece. He found it kind of stupid that everyone but Spencer knew Spencer had to be in love with O'Hara. Was this part of Yang's starkness of black _or_ white plans? That he even _she knew—?_

Lassiter forced him to choke back his gagging, reminding himself that there was tape over his mouth. He, not prone to unsightly tricks of mind, had felt a white flash of an obliterating force taking him down—and he checked his tormentor to be certain she hadn't whipped out her stun gun and jabbed him 100,000 volts or more. No. Yang was still looking him over with irises almost black even in the light of several 100 watt bulbs. She was also glancing at her bloodied hand, back and forth, almost as if to ask him the riddle of what was black and white and red all over? Lassiter had the desire to back away from her, put himself in between her and Juliet; his heart began to race. His head pounded out the sour notes of death—deaths of friends, death of love. Lassiter felt hollow, and sick.

Was _he_ really the _one_ Yang wanted to—hoped to—the one she _would_—kill?

# # #

Adam Marks cruised the 101 North with the practiced ease of long time driver. He swung around slower vehicles safely, ignoring his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel since they had nothing to do with the drive itself. He considered himself a pragmatic man; in the past, this had made him a good, upstanding role model for his young partners, fresh, malleable rookies in need of guidance. He had been vetted for few good years to become Field Training Officer but resisted, liking too much his arrangement with the department to cycle through rookie partners. He'd been able to set remarkable examples for his all of his SBPD charges, though he had often been regarded snidely by his fellow officers and even superiors—except for the Chief, for which he had favor for his consistent on-the-job performance—who queried his motives for requesting such fresh faces, again and again. He had obligingly applied for the FTO position . . . just a few months before his transfer to the LAPD.

The reason had been partially due to his pride; his ego did not want to clash with the set-in ways of other cops closer to his own age. He was a kind soul otherwise, firm and judicious, but felt if he was to deal with someone too cocky that that someone should be well below his rank. It was a secret he kept guarded, hidden in the deep wrinkles surrounding his eyes, in the laugh lines around his mouth. It was funny technique he employed for the best survival rates. He liked to be looked up to, liked to be seen as a mentor, liked even more to know his influence set his former partners up for better futures. It was rare for a man of his rank to have a partner—but he fought for it, claiming time and time again the public was better served with two watching out for them instead of just one—and what better way to serve and protect than to do it by teaching the latest rookie how not to get shot? It seemed to him the essential combination.

As Adam reflected on his career as his made the drive to Santa Barbara, he attempted to restrict dwelling too long on his last partner at the SBPD before his transfer to the LAPD. He worked hard to compartmentalize his concern while alone so that when he arrived, he would have a cool, clear head. His last partner . . . and his last partner's current partner would need the experienced, the intelligent, and the critical—non-sentimental—thinkers on their sides. Adam pursed his lips, an odd sensation of loss creeping along the back of his neck.

His young partner—nay, Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department—always had, in those very early days, a knack for getting himself into scrapes. He was often hot-headed, pig-headed, yet at the same time shaky on pulling his gun from its holster without it clattering to the ground. But he was eager and driven, with solid goals for his future. He was always a rising star.

Adam wondered, briefly, if Lassiter had the same pride for his young partner as Adam had had for him. He remembered her training her gun on him in the hospital, a real "shoot first, ask questions later" Clint Eastwood scenario she could have only learned from one man. Briefly, Adam felt a smile on his lips. Gone.

Too soon, he would be steeped in the churning emotional brew his new, temporary colleagues had already cooked up. He remembered well the strain in Chief Vick's voice as she spoke to him, with left him chewing over her detached attachment to these two detectives. They'd only met once, briefly, and he remembered from that one encounter that Vick had stepped up, committed, just as Lassiter's young partner had been accessing the threat and dealing with it swiftly. It was common to develop attachments but necessary to keep a distance—arm's length as a rule. But it was too easy for him to play various scenarios in his head as he pictured her being first to make the discovery, to find the "ransom note" that signaled the return of a notorious criminal—or even a slightly watered down copycat. Getting that knowledge was the kind of shock to stop hearts, to cause miniature ruptures in brain tissue, to cancel out speech and logic—even for the best leaders. It couldn't have taken her long to recover, but it didn't change that it was her fear, her doubt—and _her_ people missing. And that she had been in no position to warn or get to them—that she hadn't known a thing—must be eating her up, Adam guessed. He could understand these feelings; softly, he cleared his throat. Adam considered himself of good constitution, not easily rattled, and excellent under pressure—but he admitted to himself that he had doubts about the outcome of this case being anywhere close to good. Fair, perhaps. How long was proof of living in standing? Until the picture was taken, the message was sent? After, didn't it make more sense for the killer to kill the hostage, get rid of what was left? His logic seemed cold, even to himself, but he had to face the probable and likely scenario where Lassiter and his partner were already dead. Just in case. He had to be prepared for this.

For the first few years after he left the SBPD, he had made a good effort to keep in touch with Carlton, and with the other few young partners he had cycled through, but life had its heartless ways of swallowing up time, leaving time that was free practically non-existent. In fact, until the aftermath of Lassiter's troubles last year, Adam realized he hadn't even spoken to the Head Detective in at least five years. No wonder . . . no wonder he hadn't wanted . . . Adam shook his head to clear away the gray thoughts, the lingering doubt.

If the last time he'd seen Carlton alive had really been the last time, then—then there would be years to mourn after his killer was caught. Adam tightened his grip on the steering wheel, easing his foot down further on the gas pedal. And if Carlton was still alive . . . Adam was on board to make sure it stayed that way. "Get you back in one piece, kid," he muttered, driving on. It could be a sad fantasy, so he pushed it to the back of his mind. He had no doubts that Lassiter and his partner would do what they could to fight their way out—to survive—but the criminal mastermind elements were so unpredictable.

# # #

They were still going at it, the questions adding up to more and more questions. But they could hardly stop their volleying; silence with no solutions was much worse.

"Greenhouse?" Gus asked. "Nursery?"

"No," Shawn dismissed absently, "no."

"Kindergarten?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "How much different is that than a nursery? Or a greenhouse?"

"I don't see you tossing out any good ideas," Gus retorted.

"This probably has nothing to do with kids, Gus. Slim to none."

"Oh, but it has everything to do with ambrosia and anemones?"

Shawn paused his entire expression before letting it drop. "Gus, what do _Aenigma _and artichokes have anything to do with . . . ?"

"You know that _Aengima_ and anemones have nothing to do with each other."

"I know no such thing."

They both paused, drinking in an air of normalcy—pretending today was just another regular day. Whether they were solving a murder or other various crime or just walking down the pier, thinking of the flavors of their next meal. But they both knew this crime wasn't "just another".

"We can do this," Gus picked up, though he closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers against his temples.

Shawn held his breath. His best friend sounded so sure; he had moments of doubt—the chest aching, heart imploding, dizzying moments where he was absolutely certain that . . . he was going to fail. He was going to be the sole reason that Lassie and Jules got killed. A sharp pain attacked him just under his deltoid. He bent forward, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself. The body, the mind—fear could easily grow in them—all it took, sometimes, was a simple suggestion to cause full out panic. Sometimes it was worse if there were more people around—if they heard it too, whatever it was. There could a be riot; there could be chaos.

Yet, he was in a group—of highly trained professionals, however—and not one of them had tried to start a riot or had passed out cold on the floor. Though, he was making assumptions; they had been clued in long before he had. Yang needed to be stopped. Mary had to be stopped. Shawn made a fist and punched the edge of the table with a yell of jumbled noise.

He made himself ignore the present while he sifted through the information of their last dealings with these two, starting with the waitress he'd unknowingly doomed. Mary's insights. The insistence that Shawn play the serial killer's childish, deadly games. His rage at finding out she had been inside their office, watching them. Watching them, from the very beginning, but gone as unnoticed as an inanimate object, background sounds, anything that did not matter.

Life mattered.

Shawn was very adamant about this point—despite being wishy washy on nearly 96.8% of everything else. Life mattered, and friendship mattered. And when it really came down to it, so did family.

And . . . that suspiciously difficult word to spit out that began with an "L"—that mattered too. Shawn could feel it—and a specific face—yanking him from the details of past events. But not before he recalled her soft lips against his cheek—after he'd rejected her.

This time, pain shot down his chest. He hugged his arms around his body, feeling cold.

It had never occurred to him that the last time he saw her might be the last time he would _ever_ see her. Which wasn't true, he had seen her . . . but a few squares of celluloid were not equivalent to human sight. Or touch. He could always . . . call her up, from the folds of his mind, the exact details of her face. The subtle way her skin or hair changed from season to season. It was a gift, and a curse.

So much could be said with a kiss; he had been using most of his kisses to say nothing at all; his lips usually did most of his talking—most of other people's talking, too.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut until it hurt. Shawn pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to induce another state of darkness—a clearer, vaguer state, like going to sleep. Yet Shawn didn't want to sleep; and there was an unwelcome pulse warning him to be afraid of dark. Not that just closing his eyes automatically turned off the florescent glare of the police station's overhead lights—constant stimuli reminding him of his failure—or if not failure yet, then of his nonsuccesses.

The words were blurring, becoming guttural sound, or tribal hums, meaning nothing without context. He had spent nearly every second in this room focused on the words, with Gus as another constant, doing everything he could to help. But what little did they have solved that they could bring before the Chief? Vick wasn't about to let them slide; she _needed_ real results. By way of Gus's prodding, Shawn had seen her face without its mask.

If only, Shawn could have made himself reach out and rip the phantom mask off of Yang's skin, when he'd had the chance. Still, he had good cause not to then—and didn't know her well enough, in those couple of seconds, not to know that she wouldn't just push that button and blow his mother and father to hell.

Shawn scrolled through the clues and symbols of their previous encounter with her—the game; were the clues in the past? Were they in the ransom-style letters, the rhymes about saving strangers—were they about ego, being clever—too clever for her own good? Shawn felt a cold pang echo in his stomach; he fought it, fought the nagging thoughts insisting Yang could be his dark side twin. It was so mean, too mean—let this come to him in dreams, later, after, when or if he ever chose to sleep again.

"Who is fire?" Gus asked suddenly, beside him. Or was it, suddenly beside him? Had Shawn been so out of it, he hadn't been aware of Gus moving around, the squeak of that particular chair as weight left it, the shuffle of Gus's khakis, the neatly tailored hems skimming fabric to threads against the tops of his perfectly white Pumas? Shawn felt dizzy, in the split second this thought occurred to him, so much so that it canceled out, twice, Gus's repetition of the question.

"Fourth time's the charm," Shawn muttered nonsensically, hearing Gus correct him without hearing the words. This time, Shawn was the one to repeat the question. Shawn looked back, remembering the stark, pure yin yang offered before—as well as its top and middle dripping red, symmetrical droplets. A fear entered him; why the change? Was there a chance Shawn would have to do what he least wanted to—get to "know" the serial killer so he could . . . what? It was frustrating to not be able to anticipate her moves, to figure out what must be such a simple clue. Get to know her so he could . . . stop her?

"Are you fire?" Gus asked, again seeing things Shawn could not see.

"Is she fire?" Shawn asked. Both were standing in front of the whiteboard, staring at the written out clue.

_Two slow. Where your fear will grow. _

_T S H Y U F I G_

_Fit(s)_

_Fist_

_Gist_

_Shy_

_Sit_

_Shit_

_Hit(s)_

_Gut(s)_

_Gust_

_Gusty _

_Gift(s)_

_Fig(s)_

_Fight(s)_

_Sigh_

_Sight_

_yu_

_Y u fight_

_Y u sight_

_You fight_

_You sight_

_Your fight_

_Your sight_

_You fight_

_Your sight_

_Low_

_Here_

_Our _

_Ear_

_Ill_

_Row_

In this scenario, the w's were overpowering at five—was water supposed to win?_ Am I water? _Shawn pondered. _Does she want me to be that or is that what I am?_ Conversely, was the same true about Yang "being" fire?

Shawn really had no picture for either of these conditions; he could only guess Yang liked to play with fire in its many dangerous forms.

Their time was almost up. Vick would surely send that detective in here, or one of the uniforms, to retrieve them. Shawn thought of Buzz, coming to retrieve them at the Psych office—of the fight he'd put up. He tried to swallow the same lump he'd been trying to swallow since he'd realized . . . or Gus had realized for him . . . that something was up. Or down.

_Of the fight he'd put up._ Had he been "fighting his sight" then? Shawn wondered. Or _since_ then? Sight—his sight was not just seeing—not because he was psychic, of course, but because he had been highly trained to see. Or rather, to detect, to take in clues that untrained eyes could easily miss.

By the time Vick knocked on the door, once only before yanking the knob hard, Shawn's fingers were stained with black marker. She looked between the pair, whose backs were to her, to see the cluster of underlined words, some ended by haphazard question marks.

U Fight Y (r) Sight.

You Fight Your Sight.

Low Here Our Ear. I'll Row?

Low Here Our Ear Ill Row.

FIRE = ? YANG?

WATER = ? SHAWN SPENCER?

Karen, with a tightness in her gut seeing what she hoped was some progress—which it looked like Shawn was still scrawling out—was almost nervous to ask Shawn any questions, to ask him to turn around. As her eyes strayed over what had been written, she wondered if the psychic had fallen into some trance. Not even Gus had reacted to the door opening; he hadn't greeted her with even a look to offer any bones.

Her brain started spinning, trying to work out the puzzle. _Where could an ear be low? Under something? Below something? Not on the level with other things._

_Underwater? Underground? Below ground? If it was under water, then it might make sense to row. Row, row, row your boat. Row could be another word for a fight. Ducks in a row. In a sequence, in a series. Rows of trees, houses, theater seating. Something smart and neat. Things could grow in a row._

"Low here, our ear, I'll fight," Vick muttered, not realizing she'd spoken aloud. "You'll fight your sight."

Gus was the first one to notice. He felt a flutter of excitement that Shawn's written ramblings could make sense in someone else's mouth. He was feeling lost, mad at himself for not being able to help his best friend who was in so much trouble. For once, Shawn was doing all of the work, not complaining, and strangest of all, only uttering the words he continued to write, speaking the jumble until it all ran together in Gus's head.

He'd tried to engage Shawn by throwing out possibilities, but eventually it seemed the words were just words, and no words were getting them anywhere. Gus didn't really believe this; words were what they had; all they had. They had pictures, but the pictures were only distracting, distracting proofs of life.

"Ill fight," Shawn whispered. Were there too many variables? Thousands of options? "I'll fight."

He was startled when Vick called out his name, spinning quickly, certain he looked crazed. He bit his lip before blurting out that they might need more time, or more help, to get things straight. Shawn watched Vick swallow whatever she may have been about to say, announcing instead, "Adam Marks is here."

Karen found she couldn't take her eyes off the Fire/Water guesses. Below them, there was a whole workup of questions about the colors:

_Why were they new? __Important?__ Why those elements? Why not black and white (and red all over)? Why blue? Why orange?_

_Who is fire? Is she fire? Am I fire?_

_Who is water? Is she water? Am I water? _

_Fire vs. Water? _

_Yang vs. Spencer?_

"What am I not seeing?" Vick heard Shawn mutter to Guster.

"Mr. Spencer," Vick said, clearing her throat, "did you hear—?"

"He's here, Lassie's old partner?" Shawn asked, tearing his eyes away from the board. He was there when she met the man for the first time as well.

"We could use another pair of eyes, Shawn," Gus said. He nudged Shawn gently until the psychic moved, stepping around the table towards her.

"Second sight?" Shawn said, then sneered at no one in particular. "Second sight is my job."

"Mr. Spencer, you are not in this alone," Vick interrupted. It was generous, and it was not lost on Gus. She made a gesture to follow and set off ahead of them.

"He's another trained professional to help," Gus told Shawn as if he needed to be told.

"But I'm not done here," Shawn moaned. "The vibes I'm getting are scattered, all over the place." What was this Marks guy going to think? If he'd showed up to visit Lassiter in the hospital several years after they'd been partners, he might be expecting miracles. Usually Shawn didn't care much about other people's thoughts, but he felt he was teetering on some answers here—but he didn't know if they were the answers asked for. He felt he should have worked faster, that with his quick mind, the pieces should have come together sooner. But it had been hours already and there was so little to go on. What exactly _was_ Yang playing at here?

"I'd be worried if you weren't getting anything," Vick tossed over her shoulder. From the back, she looked normal, her clothes unwrinkled, her hair in place.

Shawn turned back to the board, wondering how much time he'd wasted speculating. He sighed, looking it all over. "What have we learned?"

"Never play games of chance with your math book," Gus said. "They totally cheat."

Shawn felt his shoulders relax for a moment. He wanted to smile, but his lips wouldn't cooperate. "Thanks, Buddy," he said quietly.

"You want to sit down for a minute?" Gus asked, stepping up to Shawn and dropping a hand to his friend's shoulder.

Shawn felt an unfamiliar emptiness well up in his throat. He thought he was smarter than this; he thought he could . . . fix everything with a few pointed glances. He closed his eyes and saw Yang sitting in her classic car, its curved hood aimed towards the drive-in theater's screen, the black and white classic with the fire engines and fire fighters reaching its exciting climax. She smiled, held the detonator up, and then beckoned him with a long reel of her neck, casting her line in the space between them. He found himself unwillingly hooked.

"_That is what people really want," she'd said. "To be complete. That—and a corner booth."_

"_You're a cliche," he'd retorted. "A knock-off of a knock-off."_

Nothing he'd uttered to her got through, as if she'd already had her speech long planned out in her head. She hadn't even spared him any emotion though he'd been seconds away from tear duct overflow. _"People call me a killer, but the truth is, I complete things."_

If this was true, why had she come back? If their story was complete, as she'd said it was, then what made leaving the company of her heavily armed guards, full body chains and probable sedation so agreeable? Surely, she should accept it was over, she had lost and that was that. For a moment, he felt a thrill of fear entirely selfish, a blackness that made his limbs shudder. He wondered, in that moment, if he couldn't really, somehow, "see" the future for its ugly glory.

He could think of only one solid reason for her to come back. She desired, this time, at least one death—but this was hardly enough—if this was all, she could have found a way to kill someone in prison. _She's come back for me,_ he thought, repeating thoughts he'd had earlier, but this time letting the words hit him like punches, one, two, right into the chest. _I'm the _one_ she wants._

His world spun as his head spun faster; Shawn needed to formulate a plan, a backup backup plan should all of the proper police led hunt downs not work out. If Yang was so daring to kidnap police officers now, she might be daring enough to flaunt their grisly murders in front of the entire SBPD.

But she must know that Shawn wouldn't _ever_ let that happen. Of course . . . she _must_ know. The blackness twisted away into a hot red knot, pulling tight against his chest. _Maybe I am fire,_ a thought blipped. _Maybe I am._


	9. Chapter 8: The Game Has Changed

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:**** (I put this in the story's main notes, but I just want to repeat it here too.)** Though this story is an "alternate" version from the Yin/Yang trilogy, I hesitate to label it with the "alternate universe" genre. This story was started pre-Season 4, before "Mr. Yin Presents" and "Yang 3 in 2D", and I had/have no plans to include any details from either of those episodes here. I really want this story to be about Yang returning as the "bad guy" and wreaking havoc in her own "special" ways—as well as about Yang vs. Shawn, and other aspects all pre-Seasons 4 and 5, with the exception of the romantic components regarding Shawn and Juliet.

Not sure exactly when/if it was mentioned for Henry retiring from the SBPD, so I guessed.

Again, there are references in this chapter to my previous story, "**Ask For Another Day**", but reading that story is not required to understand the references made.

I promise I'm not abandoning this story, but I'm taking it slowly because I want it to turn out well. :) Also, real life loves to get in my way. I will work towards less time between updates though. XD

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thank you and enjoy! :)

**###################################################################################################**

**Chapter Eight: The Game Has Changed**

#########################################################################################################

# # #

She hadn't always let herself think so far ahead too often, not so far that she had fantasized, detail for detail—like a bride planning her wedding—her own death. Not until she turned twenty did she think about it once, and even then, it was with the slow progression of a funeral march.

The day she was actually declared dead brought her more annoyance than fear. To think of it in its purest form, shed of pretenses—_the end_—made it a necessity to face that she would have to relinquish all of the power she held over others for so many years as she was snuffed out. Because of this, half of her desired to live forever, but the other half, neat and split down the middle, liked to revel in her romanticized double death pact she would one day enter into with Shawn Spencer. (Or would she collect him, preserve him, keep him in a glass coffin to admire, if he should die first?) For several years leading up to these recent days, she had been entertained—though never fully sated—by her challenging games which forced people to play with her; nobody had ever liked to play with her, had chosen, by their own free will, to play.

Other children her age had kept their distances, as if they could already make out the depraved flicker in her eyes, unnerved by the way she carried herself was less childlike than normal, like a tiny adult on stilts. Violet had been a gaunt, hollow child, hungry in so many ways. She had been paper thin and dry like browned autumn leaves, her mouth twitching occasionally as if it were haunted. She might have blown away in any sudden wind. And yet, she acted as if she felt no pain while digging her fingernails into a rock—had no pangs of conscience when it broke a stranger's window. They'd had no idea what to do with her.

Later, it wasn't enough to just watch something—or someone—die without lifting a hand to stop it. Lifting a hand instead to facilitate it, yet still letting her own hands stay clean, became a test. She felt lighter when she could give away her blame. If there was death as a result of a failed game, then it was not her fault but the player's. In the beginning . . .

She closed her eyes and inhaled a recent till of fresh earth. Mary had insisted she wash her hands after she'd hit the male detective over and over and had bloodied his nose. But she wasn't ready to; her hand in a loose fist at her side. She shouldn't yet be aboveground; but she had longed to smell death in its most natural habitat.

If she had to choose a grave, a final place to lay down her head, to have an old piece of granite guarding her, marking her absence, she knew exactly where to go, how to trace the steps, walk backwards if she had to to leave no footprints. She knew the number of the row, knew what they would carve into her headstone, knew who would come after to spit on her grave. Yang laughed. Someone might already be lying there. They'd have to move over. She wanted this place all to herself.

# # #

Lassiter stared at the wall. The violence that erupted against him in what he guessed to be a cramped, stuffy room had left him inexplicably drained. Even Juliet's short whimpers couldn't bring him back around. Shortly after Yang had made him bleed, the door he couldn't see had opened, and perhaps Lightly had been able to draw her away with a look or a hand gesture, but whatever had happened, she left.

Lassiter wondered if he had the strength to stand. He couldn't sort out the hours that must have passed since he and O'Hara had been noticeably missing. Had it already been days? Less than a single day? He snorted blood through his nose when he took in his breaths.

_"Did you know, for a fact, that your Chief is worried sick about you both?"_ Yang's voice cut into his semi-blank, disorganized thoughts. Again, he considered the possibilities that this question was just a lie, a taunt, meaning nothing, but it was hard to second guess and third guess and fourth guess and so on to his doubts that this was truth. It kept coming back to him, that Vick would stretch herself to her own personal and physical limits—expertly commanding her department to work in perfect synchronization—to pick up their scent, to chase them down, and if it was the criminals she first caught up to, to nail their asses to a wall.

Distantly, he thought about the recovery mission—a blur of blue-black uniforms, bulletproof vests, full tactical gear, high powered assault rifles and handguns, while Vick shouted orders from a nearby location—focusing all his hopes on O'Hara's survival. In this scenario, it might work out best if both Yang and Lightly were shot to death for refusing to surrender weapons or drop to their knees in defeat. He didn't condone death of criminals, suspects, or the "alleged", but sometimes there was no helping it. Kill, or be killed.

He kept staring at the wall, but he began to be aware of O'Hara somewhere behind him, fretting with a series of useless shrugs. She wanted to get free, but she was only going to tire herself out. He wasn't yet ready to attempt communication, but it dawned on him that his chair might move.

Lassiter rocked in his seat, determined to find the weakness, if there was one, in the wood that would allow him to get turned around. 180. He stiffened, recalling in a flash the bits and pieces of the car accident. The thought came back._ ". . . Your Chief is worried sick . . ."_

But Vick . . . Vick had come through for him once before, after spending a painful length of time on the fringe. Slowly, Lassiter remembered her above and beyond dedication to finding him and clearing his name, once she was aptly clued in. She had been on the pier, he remembered, with O'Hara, McNab, Spencer, and a half a dozen more uniforms, holding her gun steady. And she jumped into the ocean still wearing all her clothes, the petite, small framed woman she was, and had swum to find him, had apologized there in the water and then again later, on land. Maybe . . . there was still a chance he could believe in her, that she could get them _both_ out of this.

Lassiter blinked, his jaw tightening. He didn't like to think about any of what had happened to him a year ago, and was peeved that _another_ perilous situation had forced him back into that realm. Perhaps, it was an _advantage_ . . . not just to think about it now, but that he had had the . . . He shook his head, unable to be grateful for any of the bad experiences. He could only allow himself to grateful for the unlikely bonds that had been formed, all to save his life. Desperate times, desperate measures. Desperate measures that were still active, and no longer "desperate", long after.

Lassiter tried to swallow the dryness that had built in his throat. He continued his mission to rock the chair, trying not to dwell on what was past. A second wind had come into the corpse-like state of his mind, and he knew he had best not squander it.

# # #

Tired of waiting inside the bustling station—the busyness which usually brought him comfort and a sense of worth was now only bringing him anxiety and impatience—Henry went outside to await Marks' arrival. Karen was not letting him in on any goings on, and Henry had seen Gus and Shawn make a beeline for an empty interview room immediately upon returning. Shawn had looked zoned out, or tuned in, and would not catch his eye. Gus, on the other hand, had made a gesture with his eyes that Henry took to mean that Shawn might be onto something.

Other than that, Henry could have easily guessed that they were going to be too late. He knew he would have heard, one way, another, if the missing pair of detectives had been found. If Yang had been found. Henry speculated that Yang had left another clue, difficult, cryptic and likely nonsensical, but Shawn would go all out working to crack her little code.

Henry wanted to barge into the interview room and make a big deal about offering his help. Shawn, when he really wanted to, could run himself ragged looking too closely to, and overlooking, clues. And he would too, work as hard as he could, because this time around, he had a personal stake.

But Henry didn't want to risk a blowout from Karen—she could rashly change her mind, have him escorted home and put under police protection, even if he nor Shawn asked for it. And he was tired of thinking about his "extended family" in peril. The whole thing made him queasy.

Henry almost had no idea what Marks saw in Lassiter—almost. Or why he'd want to rush all the way out here. He understood, vaguely, that Vick had set this up but hadn't a clue how this could be considered a favor when the two barely knew each other. He did not remember the man from his—their—SBPD days, not by name alone, anyway.

He took a seat on a bench, intending to clear his head, but found himself engulfed by more urgent thoughts and racing questions, one leading to the next endlessly. He was so on edge by the time the former SBPD/LAPD Sergeant Level ll arrived that his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

Henry sized up the man walking towards the doors of the SBPD—white male; 5'11; carrying some extra weight around the midsection; gone gray about the head and whiskers; but not the eyebrows; the condition of his wrinkles putting him in likely his late fifties—noticing quickly that, despite the man letting himself get out of shape, he walked proudly, still holding himself like a cop, with purpose and honor. In turn, Henry felt himself being scrutinized by the man's warm, disarming brown eyes.

He stood, ready to make a quick introduction before Marks headed for the police station's doors. He could admit that he himself was little paunchy, a little more wrinkled about the eyes and mouth, and had taken to favoring what others considered garish colored Hawaiian shirts over the SBPD's solid blue uniforms, but Henry wondered if Marks could recognize him as a retired cop as well. Marks wore a brown suit with a light green dress shirt underneath, but no tie. There was a small stain on his right breast pocket—coffee, fresh. He looked weary—perhaps, with a guarded worry, Henry speculated.

"Sgt. Adam Marks?" Henry asked formally. The man nodded, waiting. "I'm Henry Spencer. Shawn Spencer is my son—he consults for the SBPD."

"Spencer?" Marks repeated, furrowing his brow. For a few seconds, he was lost in thought. "Henry Spencer, you were on the force the same time I was. Are you retired?"

Henry cracked a smile; the former sergeant's question relaxed him. "Is my wardrobe that obvious?"

Marks nodded, with a small smile. "How long?"

"Since mid '96. You remember me?"

"I remember hearing of you," Marks admitted. "I don't think we ever officially met. And I did get a transfer to the LAPD in '95."

Henry nodded. "After the Cavaliere case."

"Yes, but that case wasn't the reason I left," he explained. "I'd been offered a cushier job at the LAPD which required less fieldwork."

"I see," Henry said. Not knowing why, he added, "My retirement was due to my then crumbling marriage." He let the newcomer imagine the outcome of this decision.

Marks said, "You know that expression, about taking someone out of their passion, but not being able to take the passion out of someone?" He squinted in the sunlight, and dabbed a handkerchief at his sweaty brow.

"Sure," Henry said.

"I like to think that for a cop, this is especially true. You don't stop wanting what a cop wants just because you're no longer wearing the uniform." Abruptly, he extended his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer," Marks said.

"For what?" Henry asked, confused. He hesitantly reached out, shaking Marks' hand.

"In spite of your retirement—as I said, I believe that all aspects of policing stays in the blood—I know you watched out for Carlton during—" Marks pursed his lips, the gentle look leaving his eyes for a moment. "During his hard time last year. I'm in your debt." He smiled. "It might be odd, but I still feel responsible for him in some ways—even now that he's a grown man and Head Detective."

Henry nodded, a warmth in his ribs suggesting he could relate. "My son is thirty—I wish I could say he was a grown man—but I still worry over him as if he were—"

"Still a kid?" Marks supplied, the stiffness gone from his face.

"Yeah." He swallowed. He wanted to say something about the probability of a safe return for both Lassiter and O'Hara, but Marks was also a retired cop—and wouldn't benefit from anything being sugar coated. And the odds were severally against them.

"Never had kids of my own," Marks continued, "guess, in a way, I always thought of the younger partners I was paired with as—my responsibility, as if—" He squinted, as if looking into a far past memory. Henry wondered if he was remembering Lassiter as the bumbling youth that Henry recalled him as in his rookie days—from the one or two times he'd crossed paths with him. Marks cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly. "I met his partner—she seems a down-to-earth yet spitfire young lady—good for him, I'd imagine."

"You mean Detective O'Hara?" Henry asked. "She is."

Marks let a smile play out on his lips, crinkling the wrinkles around his eyes. "I met her once, last year—she pulled her gun on me, thinking I was a stranger to Carlton."

Henry joined in the smile for a moment as he recalled some sharpness from her after the events—both she and Karen had taken on overly protective maternal roles, in an attempt, Henry was certain, to make up for lost time and to appease their own consciences. He had invoked his own paternal instincts when he had seen Lassiter in such a bad way. It had been hard not too; the detective had clearly not been the man he usually was, and Henry had been as upset as his son had been by the odd shift in power, in roles. And it hadn't taken him too long to start referring to Lassiter as "kid"—because he had been vulnerable enough then to seem so.

Marks chuckled. "I was taken that she was running on basic instinct, as if there was a war yet to be fought. It was most affecting especially after I learned everything that had happened—"

Henry nodded. "You don't have to tell me."

"No, I suppose I don't."

Henry watched Marks' smile droop from his eyes and lips. He wasn't usually the consoling type, and had thought he'd already talked himself out of this, but he licked his lips and started to gather a handful words, likely meaningless fluff, but just something to fill up the silence. Marks saved him from bullshit by asking, "How much do you know about the Yin Yang Killer, Mr. Spencer?"

# # #

The letter—the lone letter he received from the young woman in prison, Lassiter recalled as he rocked his chair, the day so far back now that he could almost believe it hadn't happened. It was his first day back after weeks of physical and emotional recovery. Vick had closed to door to her office, drawn the blinds.

He swallowed, his mouth further dry at the memory.

He'd taken it out of his jacket with no fanfare, no explanation, holding it out to her until she took it. She had stared at its surface blankly at first, turning it over and over to stare at its front again. Quizzical, she rose her eyes to his to silently ask why he had not opened it himself, but he'd had no answer for her, spoken or not.

Lassiter huffed through his bloodied nose with exertion of moving both his body and the heavy wooden chair which it was anchored to. All he wanted now was to get himself turned around so he could see O'Hara, hobble close enough to see her face. The task was likely a stupid thing, he thought, in many respects. He was injured, and jerky movement on his tired limbs and jarred brain could only make his pain worse. And he was risking any form of punishment Yang or Lightly could dish out if—when—they caught him. But Lassiter had his mind set on this, getting to her, and was resolved not to stop.

Earlier, he might have been "content" enough to stare at the wall, brainstorming silently and keeping his embarrassment and helplessness from her—but now he needed he had to do whatever he could to stop her fear. He needed her to be brave—to run away as soon as she had the chance—and she wasn't about to do that if she was too worried about him.

# # #

Henry sighed, not sure where to start. On the one hand, he knew not nearly enough, and on the other, he'd seen first hand via Shawn that the killer could cause plenty of harm—whether she killed anyone or not. "I know—" he broke off, then tried again. "I know from the old days that the Yin Yang Killer never found a suitable target—one that could match her as evenly and quick-wittedly as—as my son has." He paused. "And I know that, before her capture or surrender, whichever, that she had almost Shawn wrapped around her little finger—"

Marks raised an eyebrow, supplying due information. "As I understood it, Shawn didn't play the game exactly to her specifications—and yet he still 'won'?"

Henry guffawed, unable to stop it. "If you want to call it that, 'winning'. Because he didn't play to her specifications, a stranger was spared but his mother was taken as a replacement."

Marks' face winced with apology. Henry shook his head before Marks could utter a word. "It—it had turned out all right, none dead—Yang in jail where she belonged—" Henry shook his head again. "Look, I know you don't know my son, not yet," Henry said carefully, "but I know him. I'm being brutally honest here. Shawn can be misguided, often sloppy, and has a hard time following through"—he saw Marks tense—"but not when it comes to a damn thing to do with his friends, or when he's solving crimes. His methods are . . . unconventional," he griped. "He doesn't like rules, or following orders, and I wish for the life of me he'd chosen the straight and narrow and gone to the Academy, but he . . ." Henry sighed, dismissing his son's choices. "He would . . . he would . . ."

Marks stopped him from uttering the words, knowing at the same time that Henry couldn't say them. _"Shawn would die before letting anything bad happen,"_ or something to the effect, Marks guessed. He forced himself to utter, "I trust your son. I know what he did for Carlton last year—know it took more than guts and blind bravery to do what he did. I trust him."

Henry wished he could say the same. He tried to swallow the copper of his guilt, focus on the times Shawn had come through—plus, he was also here for Shawn. Marks was here. Karen too. Gus. The whole department also, in some way, because they were aware they needed to work with Shawn to get back their own. Henry scoffed. This was wishful thinking at best; in spite of Shawn's upbeat attitude and constant "psychic" antics, Henry knew there were still many officers and detectives who were not wooed and couldn't care less if Shawn went away forever.

Just for now, Henry chose to believe that these men and women would hold in their judgments for his son's actual crime solving abilities (magic mirrors and dry ice aside) until _after_ this was all done. Done . . . he wasn't even sure what he meant by that. Was "done" when the missing detectives were back home? Was "done" when Yang was recaptured, when Lightly was incarcerated, when neither would ever see the light of day again unless securely wrapped up in chains? Again, Henry sighed, not feeling any of his tension release.

"Mr. Spencer," Marks said, interrupting Henry's wild thoughts, "I need you to know right off that I fully intend to work with Shawn on this case/task force—but that I'm also here for support and to offer him the proper guidance for protection—and that I will never use him, put him in harm's way, thinking I could ensure a trade—"

Henry released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding since Marks began speaking about Shawn's involvement. "He might—try to talk you into it."

Marks shook his head.

Henry continued, though he'd noticed Marks' shake of head. "He's reckless—but also—" he broke off, biting his lips and releasing a hard breath through his nose. "As I mentioned, my son is fiercely protective of his friends. He might not admit it, but I know that he's become close with both of them—and that he panics over their safety the same way he would over Gus's—Burton Guster, his best friend and work partner," Henry quickly clarified.

"Regardless," Marks cut in gently, "I refuse to be at the head of a campaign to put him deliberately in harm's way. And I suspect, even from my brief conversation with Chief Vick, that she would rather take a bullet than allow your son put in unnecessary danger."

Henry raised his eyebrows slowly, feeling he had to disagree with Marks' assessment. The Karen he'd seen had covered her panic with a thin veil of authority, demanding Shawn not back away from his responsibility in this matter. Henry couldn't, as a cop, blame her; yet, as a father, he still worried. "No sacrifices," he muttered under his breath.

"Mr. Yang is a fatal foe to tangle with—but she must have more in mind than just audacity abducting them," Marks said, running a loose fist of knuckles across his chin. "She must have found a brilliant catalyst in your son—"

Henry flinched angrily, his shoulders and muscles in his jaw tightening.

Marks continued, though he was well aware of Henry's discomfort. "An opponent of a formidable quality to bring her back—"

"To set her on a killing spree, another reign of terror," Henry snapped, his words bitter. "She could have killed my ex-wife! Killed my son! All because she—saw something _admirable_ in Shawn."

Marks nodded, but kept his tone even. "Henry, you know you can't do that."

"I can't do what?" Henry fought out through clenched teeth.

"You can't allow your relationship with Shawn and your past history with this criminal to cloud your perspective on this case—especially since, as if I'm to understand correctly, Shawn has agreed to this responsibility of following the game to its destination. I know he's your son, and I know this is difficult to go through again, but I would like to be assured that you can keep your emotions in check."

Henry's nostrils flared, and he was torn between snapping at Marks again or making another crack about how his son was hard-pressed to follow through on anything. "Can you guarantee we can fix this?"

"That's not a question I can answer truthfully," Marks told him quietly.

Henry inhaled a few deep breaths. The anger drained from him as Marks' words took hold—the former Sergeant was not trying to upset Henry, but to, as he'd said, keep Henry within perspective.

Six months ago when Mr. Yang put herself nose to nose with Shawn, the game had been tough enough to 'win'. But now the SBPD was lacking its Head Detective and his highly accomplished Junior partner—two people who had aided in leveling the playing field last time around. He'd asked the question before he'd thought it all the way through, knowing, as a cop, that the answer could not be finite, especially when dealing with a psychopath. And he had gone and made the mistake of letting his emotional attachment to Shawn color his thoughts. Right, if he did this, he knew it could go badly for Shawn. Marks had been making a valid point—Yang had become attached to Shawn to like a leech, and would only let go of him if she was physically pulled off. Because . . . she _did_ see Shawn as "special"—a match for her intellectual capacities, and seemed to be interested by his respect for the value of human life. He hated the picture that was forming in his head—the woman's arms wrapped around his son, her fingers inching their way up to his throat. He couldn't let that happen. "I can be objective," he admitted begrudgingly.

Marks nodded. "Are you sure?" He raised an eyebrow, watching Henry work hard to keep his expression under control.

"Yes. I can. I have to. For Shawn."

"We will be a support system, I promise you that, Mr. Spencer," Marks said unnecessarily, but Henry felt reinforced to hear him say it; there was a strength to his tone that was reassuring—and even swore an unspoken promise.

"We should go inside," Henry said, starting for the doors. "Please, call me Henry."

"Likewise," Marks said. "Name's Adam."

They went straight to Vick's office, Henry flanking Adam as if Adam was his ticket in for key information. Karen looked briefly relieved as she shook Marks' hand, even as they exchanged the formal pleasantries of having to meet again under these conditions. But Karen expressed her gratitude at his presence, and excused herself to retrieve Shawn and Gus personally.

# # #

He couldn't help himself, though he'd tried to bite his tongue about it; saying it out loud was a surefire way to lose whatever little favor she had for him. But Mary was confused by "Mr. Yang's" erratic changes—the yin yang of two different colors, couplets for riddles, no stop watch, as if there was no time limit on solving these clues. As if everyone was meant to exist in a suspended state—until Shawn Spencer got his head on straight. It was, he admitted, infuriating; he'd spent a good chunk of years studying her patterns—though, he considered, this was long before she had a face, had been seen as a known killer by the public eye.

Long before _he_ had been a _she_, a rarity, female serial killers—and one who favored violence and explosive devices over quiet but painful deaths, caused by a variety of poisons. In all the years he'd been on her case, he had _never_ once considered Yang to be a woman.

But still. But still, why change everything when she had been the same for thirteen years?

Mary felt a kinship towards Yang in this way; that which does not willingly change. At the end of their thirteen year rendezvous, he was at a loss. She had been his phantom companion much too long to just give up on her now.

He suspected, with sour reserve, that Yang's change—as well as her relatively "easy" capture—was directly related to Shawn Spencer. _Shawn Spencer brings out the worst in people,_ Mary thought suddenly, getting pangs for the foolish intention. He couldn't make himself believe it, even though he wanted to.

And besides, he could hardly blame Spencer for Yang's erratic behavior; she was an unstable woman long before him. Mary licked his lips and tasted Yang's assumed real first name in his mouth. _Violet._ A harmless flower, edible, medicinal and fragrant; a flower with many faces, many names. The name tasted of spring rain and deep purple ocean sunsets. There was storm in the first letter, "V", while the rest of the syllables hushed like a toss of gentle waves upon a shore. Nothing like "Yang"—clean, simple, almost tasteless—except for that hint of something burned black at the back of his throat.

Yet he had just found her inside the room with blood on her hand, leering at Detective Lassiter with an unreadable expression flat on her face. Sometimes he almost forgot she killed people—forgot that he now killed people too.

He'd suppressed the a nervous giggle that had built up his throat; even in that state she still excited him—her chaos so vast he guessed he could study her the rest of his life and never know how deep the well really was. Her chaos—for someone so plain, who once liked the clean, simple black and white of a regular Yin Yang. Almost, he'd reminded himself. Almost, because there was often a smear or drip of blood on her pictures . . . she liked color, she couldn't get enough.

Mary hadn't guessed that they would ever come to a place like this to wait. She had, he'd guessed, like populated, public places for her showdowns—this time, the nervous giggle bubbled out. Wasn't this . . . highly populated? Public? With a captive audience? If she wasn't bothered that none of them here were aboveground, or alive, then he shouldn't be either.

He'd watched her go aboveground, methodically walking to the solitary staircase, closing the door behind her. It was well-lit enough where they were, but even in the short hallway he felt trapped. But he didn't want to stay in the room; Detective O'Hara's eyes were burning into him and it was all he could take with just the one woman in his life on fire.

# # #

As they walked through the molasses of time, following the Chief out of the room, Shawn's mind reeled over all of the possibilities of the clue.

_Two slow. Where your fear will grow._

Two slow, he guessed, could mean he and Gus—they were too slow getting on the scene. Or it could mean himself and the SBPD. Or it could mean. . . .

He wished he'd had the sense to slip Henry a written message of the clue; Gus was right, a fresh pair of eyes was necessary at this point. In spite of his racing thoughts now, Shawn felt in his gut that what he and Gus had boiled out of the two sentences were more key to finding Jules and Lassie than the uselessness of the original message. However, he also considered that those two sentences could still be locked; that the keys he had found just might not fit.

_You fight your sight. _

_Low hear our ear Ill row. _

You fight your sight. She had fallen back on teasing him. Or was this her twisted version of flirting? _"Be honest. I'm prettier than you thought." "I want you to like me, Shawn." _He felt as if he head would split in half.

But with a jolt, Shawn remembered the words spoken by Vick—he had heard them as well as Gus, but they had not registered as clearly when they were said just a few minutes ago. In his head, he isolated her variation, hearing the great resolve in her "I'll fight" as if she had just spoken it right now. This was suddenly comforting for Shawn to think about; not that he had doubts that Vick wasn't going to do everything possible to find them. She was definitely no pushover; putting herself at the front lines with her weapon drawn if the occasion absolutely called for it. She was there each time her officers needed extra support, or an extra gun taking aim.

She had even . . . inspired him, Shawn reflected, as he tried her tenacious words out in his own mouth. _"I'll fight." _And not his own "sight". So he had no second sight, but he had been trained to think like a cop since he was a child. He'd had a natural affinity for _sight_—seeing things, more than seeing, also piecing together the little things that others might just miss, the little signs that were easy to miss. This was why he'd kept to it, even long after disappointing Henry, why he'd continued to call in tips to the police, to use his "gift" to help himself and others long before returning home.

And Yang knew this. Or if she didn't know the specifics or the sentimentality, she knew that he had a "gift". Shawn bit his lip. He wondered if Yang believed he was actually psychic—if she, aside from her cold calculating puzzles and disregard for human life, had time for musings of the spiritual or supernatural. Shawn's shoulders tightened; this didn't seem likely. Then, was it something else . . . could she . . . see right through him to the other side?

Shawn's body bent awkwardly as if he had touched an exposed wire and received an electrical shock. He stopped walking, becoming aware of his best friend at his side, tossing an arm around his shoulder. In better times, all he would have needed from Gus was a squeeze on his shoulder, or a loose fist batting his arm, or a sneak attack fistbump, but in the here and now, Shawn felt he might fall apart without Gus. Gus was apt at keeping him mentally and physically stable, and focused, or at least getting him back to focused when he went astray.

Shawn hadn't the words to express the eerie emotion that had run through him, leaving his intestines raw. He hoped selfishly that Gus would embarrass himself and do something funny to make him feel better for a couple of seconds.

Tripping up Gus's feet seemed unethical, even for Shawn, so instead, he let Gus hold up the bones in his shoulders and arms better than his rib cage was doing. He squinted at Vick's back as if she were walking into a fog somewhere ahead of them, disappearing into its thick soup. Never to be seen again. His gut wrenched with loss, having already, though unwillingly, thought of death. Their deaths. And selfishly, death of Psych—how would he ever be able to consult with police again if he—

Gus felt Shawn lean more heavily on his shoulder, as if his friend was seeking to lurch forward, and like an acrobat, dive into a somersault that would him leave him curled up in a human ball on his side on the floor. Gus took in a steadying breath through his nose. He couldn't let this happen to Shawn. No, he had an important job to do.

With all the strength he could currently muster, Gus pulled Shawn along through the hallway. "This guy is going to be our second sight," Gus whispered reassuringly to Shawn. He still felt as if he were dragging Shawn up the stairs to the guillotine. Shawn had wanted so badly to stay in the interview room with the whiteboard, keep turning the words over and over. Gus wondered if Shawn wasn't still doing that, in his head. "He rushed out here to help."

Shawn scrolled through memories, finding the specific one where he and Gus had come upon the stranger in Lassiter's hospital room. Both Vick and Juliet had been present, both had been wearing relaxed expressions of alertness, as if neither had credence in the man before them as a friend of Lassiter's. Juliet, Shawn had noticed, had one hand loosely resting at her hip, ready to pull her gun. She had wanted to believe, he guessed, but the terrible events had still been fresh in all of their minds.

But Adam Marks—a long ago partner of Lassiter's—had showed up as soon as he'd heard. Then, now.

Vick—Shawn recalled, had looked the most pained, but had had a reluctant acceptance and slight appreciation for the older, retired cop who had not only stopped in for a visit but had apparently cared enough about (and had had enough patience to put up with) Lassiter to not let a few years of missed communication stand in his way. Out of the blue, Shawn's shoulders relaxed, as if some of his metaphorical weight could be transferred to Marks, to someone older with experience—like Vick or his father—someone who, in spite of being an "outsider", would do everything possible to help him make this right.

Someone else to lean on—someone else to point out his mistakes. Someone else to give encouragement—someone else to hate him if he failed. He flattened his lips.

"Come on, we're almost there," Gus encouraged quietly. Vick's open office door beckoned.

Shawn nodded tightly, and they went in.

# # #

Creaking noises behind her, to her right. Scraping, jarring, bumping, then Juliet could make out Lassiter's muffled grunts. She turned her head as far as she could to her right, but even still could only catch a blur of movement from the corner of her eye. Curious, she worked to steady the breathing she'd assumed was loud and wet through her nose. Juliet heard Lassiter snort, also a wet sound which found her muscles tensing. She'd heard him being hit over and over, had squeezed her eyes tight and tried not to listen, as if she'd had a choice.

She herself had a new welt on her cheek from Yang's slap; Juliet swallowed hard. She felt like a wimp just sitting here, especially when it seemed like Lassiter had reached a furious breaking point. Though, Juliet thought, this was after Lightly appeared to retrieve Yang, led her out of the room with a hand on her elbow, whispered to her something about bigger plans, as if he were now running the show. And after this, a long stretch of silence. It felt long enough to her; even at the station when they were silent and working, there was the everyday noise of fingers on keyboards, pencils and pens on paper, hums of voices on the phones or over radios, static and footsteps, coffee percolating, pages turning, doors opening and closing.

As Juliet thought of other sounds she missed, the ones which flew under her radar but had become comforting in their repeated normalcy, time passed. After a while, she had to strain to hear her partner's breathing over her own; now, this. Her heart fluttered with an excited panic; _what if he was heard—what if he was caught_—at whatever he was doing. She twisted herself in his direction a little further and found, with a jolt, that she could see Lassiter's profile, up to his waist. He was cuffed to a chair as she was, his mouth taped shut too, but her eyes went immediately to the left side of his face, to the bandage on his temple, to the blood still trickling down his nose. He was, she saw as her heart caught in her throat, moving his chair towards her, in spite of the extra pale tint of his skin—the effect to her being that he looked like an exhausted ghost.

Lassiter jumped the chair forward another half inch. He was making more progress than he'd initially thought he would in such a short span of time—and kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. He could now see O'Hara trying to get a look at him; it looked painful to him, the way she had scrunched her body, but her curiosity kept her in place. When he felt her eyes on his—assuming she could understand—he shot her his best mien of determination, hoping his eyebrows and forehead would help her recognize what she was seeing. He did his best to swallow his own fear the closer he edged towards her.

He envisaged her muscles taut, her jaw set, her body and mind poised for fight or flight, and expected himself to successfully quash any of her arguments against his orders to go and save herself. She would do it for him, if he asked, if he ordered it officially, if he scowled, if he was blunt about his objective, wouldn't she? Go, and save herself?


	10. Chapter 9: Have To Clean This Mess

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Also don't own references to _The Stepford Wives_.

Author's Note: Just wanted to give a big thank you to everyone reading and reviewing—means everything to know you are out there! Thanks for sharing your thoughts and reactions, I love hearing from all of you. :)

Reviews, constructive criticism, and feedback are welcome and appreciated! Thank you. :) Enjoy!

Again, there are references in this chapter to my previous story, "**Ask For Another Day**", but reading that story is not required to understand the references made.

##############################################################################################################################

**Chapter Nine: They're The Ones Who Have To Clean This Mess **

**#######################################################################################################################**

# # #

"You must be Shawn," Adam Marks said, stepping forward as Shawn as Gus made it inside. He extended his hand and Shawn took it. Shawn was warmed immediately by the strong, firm grip—and disarmed by the gentleness in the retired officer's dark brown eyes.

His observational skills took him on a journey through Marks' face—the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, which told Shawn he'd spent a good several years with laughter; the gray of his hair which put his age in his late fifties or early sixties; the bulk on his body which was a sure sign of retirement. After Shawn catalogued the physical aspects, he scanned quickly for signs he could later parrot back in his psychic fashion—the gold wedding band, the suit, which suggested he was still in a job or position which required professionalism—perhaps, Shawn saw, still in law enforcement. Could he be a consultant of some kind?

No kids, Shawn saw, guessing there was a regrettable reason for why not. But what was most clear was the dedication to the law. Dedication to the SBPD, several years after his transfer. Or was it dedication to . . .

What was just below the surface, Shawn saw, was a resolute teacher and committed cop, in the guise of a kind soul—a bit like Vick, or his father, but less of a hard-ass. And like his father—the job never ended.

Marks' handshake pulled him forward by the elbow; the physical strength combined with the dogged ease in the gesture compelled Shawn to relax. He'd only nodded to acknowledge the statement, but now he cleared his throat. "Yes."

"I'm Adam Marks, Lassiter's former SBPD partner, in case you don't remember me." He looked amused—one step ahead of Shawn, it seemed.

"No, I remember you," Shawn said. He felt a little displaced as Marks let his hand go to shake Gus's. Beside him, Gus was politely introducing himself.

Before Shawn could gather the words himself, he heard Gus thank Marks for making the drive, sounding relieved that they would have another trained professional on their side, adding something personal to welcome Marks to their circle—half circle. Shawn realized that he also felt the relief, and was impressed that Gus always managed to keep a cool head when Shawn really needed to lean on him. He was glad he had kept himself from embarrassing Gus out in the hallway; in spite of it, Shawn guessed Gus would _still_ have put on his best face for their latest helper. That's just who Gus was.

In front of him, the world was still turning; their voices through molasses, their movements like robots. In the blink of an eye, Detective Alexander entered and introduced herself. As Shawn watched her short red ponytail snake down her back, a small part of him cracked.

_I'm out my element here, _Shawn thought blearily, clutching the tail end of fear as it shot past him like a ghost, twisting in the wind like a sheet. He felt weak enough in those few seconds to cross his eyes, for his vision to completely blur. But . . . but in that moment, he saw her, he saw Jules, staring back at him—as if, when the picture was taken, she was looking just at him.

He wanted to take the tape off her lips—then kiss her fiercely, until she begged him for breath. _Jules._ His heart lurched. She was so far gone—right in front of him and he'd never . . . Shawn closed his eyes, but he stayed alert.

What was it about this . . . former Sgt. that put him at ease, that had centered him just moments before? Shawn wondered, cutting to a past he wasn't privy to—trying to imagine this man before him bonding with a young officer named Carlton Lassiter. He . . . he couldn't do it, imagine Lassiter "young"—impressionable, eager. His one glimpse of the young rookie, he recalled, was of a clumsy scarecrow barely able to retrieve his handcuffs from his belt. Impossible, driven, unyielding—these were the qualities that readily came to mind, also a host of other, less favorable adjectives that brought a smirk to his face, even now. Pig-headed. Incorrect. Humorless. Uncouth. Insensitive.

But Shawn lost the smirk fast. Were these adjectives enough to . . . condemn the Head Detective to death? With a low groan, Shawn clamped his hands to the side of his head.

He didn't want either of them to die.

For all the horror it brought to him, Shawn wished that Yang had had the guts to come for him directly. He should have been the one taking the blow from a stun gun, writhing, wrapped up in her arms—ripped away from everything and everyone he loved. Lassie and Jules would have been on the case then, more qualified to track him than he was in this position. He was sure his head was going to explode.

Seconds passed, minutes, maybe. Hands on his arms, wrangling him into a seat. Shawn buckled with deja vu—always the ghost, always slipping just through his fingers, gone. He felt a slave to his fear, in spite of how many people in this room alone were at his side as allies. _This isn't right,_ he told himself. _I can't lose it in front of them anymore._ Shawn found a watered down, sheepish half-smile trapped at the side of his cheek. He put it on. "The spirits," he coughed, forcing himself to open his eyes. He was expecting the mix, the contortions of expression—a range from sympathetic concern to bitter frustration. Marks' expression was most unreadable.

Vick barked at him, impatient. "What did you see, Mr. Spencer?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn studied Detective Alexander. She was a just a few steps up in skepticism from Lassie; her mouth was set with a faint disgust at how much time Shawn was wasting. Out of spite, Shawn took everything he could as he looked at her; it wasn't much, but he had a sudden urge to make her look as foolish as possible. Show her that she was not needed; show her she was never going to take anyone's place.

It wasn't much: All she'd found was that other motels and hotels in the area were clean; as were the ones 50 miles out. She had begun to look into those further out, but had come to seek approval—or reproach, which Shawn found curious—to continue her exploration. Shawn added an extra flourish that he hoped wasn't secretly true: that Yang was unlikely to find another cheap motel room to hide them. Yang knew that was the first places where the search would be exhausted; precious energy and time spent, when the entire time she was likely somewhere under their noses. Watching, laughing at their failed progress. (Shawn didn't say that last part aloud.)

The more he considered it, he thought Yang was thrilled that he'd "chosen" to play—so thrilled that she had given him time to solve her practically impossible clue. What really got to him was that he knew the answer was probably as simple as the words given—but he just hadn't been able to _see_ it. Why was he better at this game when it was a stranger's life on the line?

When he was done, he saw Detective Alexander stare open-mouthed, peeved, at him. This was no time to split hairs; she was obviously the bigger person—and admitted to Vick that what Shawn had just "learned via spiritual connection" was the bulk of her recent investigating. Vick, for her own part, seemed unhappy by how little news there was, but Shawn reveled in getting away with the mood swing. Except he knew neither Henry nor Gus bought it; details. Shawn fidgeted. Marks still had his eyes fixed on Shawn's face, as if he wanted to get inside.

Shawn felt a faint shame, as if he'd only further embarrassed himself in front of the newcomer. The last thing he should be doing right now was pushing away anyone who wanted—or was ordered—to solve this case. He guessed that Vick had briefed Marks prior to their arrival, but that it was up to Shawn to hand over knowledge about the latest clue. Maybe Marks could see something there that neither he or Gus had found. If that was true then maybe they could finally leave the police station and chase down what they needed. Last time, Yang had sent them all around the city, one useless thing leading to another seemingly useless thing—that was exactly what they needed.

It bothered Shawn immensely that Yang had broken her own pattern; he had been prepared, he thought, to follow her old routine, but now it was impossible to be one step ahead of her. Had Lightly been _that_ influential? That barely made sense, since the profiler seemed to adore Yang "as is", in her most poisonous, undiluted form.

Chagrined to see Detective Alexander hanging around—perhaps waiting for him to provide something useful so she could get on some real police work—Shawn started speaking. Gus backed him up, when needed, and they both took everyone through what they'd made of the clue.

"So," Detective Alexander frowned, "you've got basically nothing for me." Smugly, he knew he'd been right.

"Now, hold on," Marks interjected politely, raising a hand. Shawn had opened his mouth at the same time to protest his outrage, but closed it when Marks shot him a firm look. "My gut says that Shawn and Gus are onto something, here." He turned his head to Vick. "Would you mind if I spent a few minutes with the boys alone, so as to take a gander at what has been written down?"

Karen nodded. "Absolutely." She turned a professional smile on Shawn and Gus; it hit them like a flashlight beam to the eyes. There was a warning in it; despite not having their time measured by a criminal's stopwatch, they couldn't afford to waste much more. "Get to work, gentlemen."

Henry trailed them, closing the door so Vick and the new detective could speak privately. He found himself grateful to have another former cop like himself on their side. Before they'd reached Vick's office earlier, they'd spoken a little more about Lassiter's troubles more than a year ago. Henry chewed on the brief exchange.

"How much did he tell you?" Henry asked.

"Just enough," Marks replied.

Henry pursed his lips, trying to hide the facts. Lassiter had confessed everything to him—long, painful and embarrassing events that in other circumstances would have otherwise gone to the grave with the Head Detective. Yet, the confession was like pulling teeth—and it took threats for him to reveal anything. Henry was flooded by the past, sitting in Lassiter's hospital room, demanding the key to finding his son. He wondered, idly, if Lassiter had shown Marks the journal he'd kept; Henry guessed the answer was no.

_Henry worked his jaw, hearing a few cracks. "You said you remember what happened?"_

_"Everything." Lassiter stared at Henry. "Do you want to know?"_

Henry chickened out, asking about the journal. It wasn't that safe, talking so in depth about the past, especially when the present (and future) was full of enough hardship and danger. Besides, they had reached their destination.

Karen, Henry saw immediately, was a woman on the edge. She was relieved enough, but he could still see the faint desperation underneath her calm exterior that had made a breakneck appearance last year. She was failing to hide it well enough; Henry wondered if he'd been that transparent last year too, sick with worry over Shawn.

# # #

Since Karen had not spoken against it—Henry took followed the trio into the interview room. He gasped sharply to himself when he saw the feverish pace at which Shawn must have worked to get this much information down; Henry guessed that there was much more at work in Shawn's head. Shawn had seemed more than reluctant to enter Vick's office, but Henry saw now it was less out of fear and more out of annoyance—he had up to his elbows in murky progress. The four of them stared at the well-covered whiteboard.

The silence only lasted a few spare seconds before Shawn launched into his theories, in more detail than what he'd said in Vick's office. Gus helped by putting forth what they'd already eliminated as grotesque improbabilities regarding the cryptic clue, but he also threw in guesses that were wilder than the eliminations. Marks didn't say a word, studying what was in front of him as Shawn and Gus spoke.

Shawn threw himself into a hopped up, highly animated state. "I'm ready to fight," he said. "I am." _But I still need the right tools._ Shawn bounced himself out of both Gus's and Henry's reach; they both failed at attempts to calm him down.

Adam found himself intrigued by what was laid out before him; though he would never make the mistake of saying it aloud where Henry Spencer could hear it again, it was nearly obvious to him why Mr. Yang had come back for more. He listened to Shawn's passionate prattle; the young consultant had done so well to unlock the clue that he'd entirely missed the solution. That was, Adam considered, unless he was wrong. Or unless Shawn was wrong.

The pair had incorporated the new version of the yin yang—the fire consuming and the water quenching—as they read between the lines. Adam guessed that Mr. Yang had slipped a secret message into this clue for Shawn alone—just as she had done with the video she had made. If Shawn didn't do as the killer wanted, both hostages would die regardless. But if he did enter into her dangerous game, it was Shawn who would get to choose their fates—one detective was to live, and the other was to die.

Marks swallowed hard, staring forward. He needed to know if Shawn's mind had already been made up—if he had decided, if the game went exactly to the killer's specifics, who would fill which role. It was hard for him to tell now as he watched Shawn jump around if he'd already rolled the dice, settled or had made a specific choice. Adam remembered what Henry had told him outside; it was altogether possible that Shawn had, but was keeping his true plans a secret.

_Two slow. Where your fear will grow._

Two. This could be the number of variables working against each other, Marks thought. This time, Yang had an accomplice, and she had two hostages who each mattered dearly not just to Shawn but to the SBPD as a whole. The psychic detectives were a duo, so it meant that was respectively two against two (hostages aside), still . . . Adam remembered something else Henry had spoken about.

_"And I know that, before her capture or surrender, whichever, that she had almost Shawn wrapped around her little finger—"_

Adam mused over this; Henry had not directly stated if there was something determined (other than an unsettling admiration) that had drawn Mr. Yang towards his son. He wondered if this number wasn't a secret in itself. He pulled his lips tight across his teeth. Broaching this subject with the psychic might be difficult, but it had to be done.

Adam had not missed the way Shawn wriggled away from his best friend and his father; he recognized how much they both wanted to protect him, or at the least, tame his wild energy. Discreetly, Adam got them to leave—Gus he sent for water (it was a long trip from LA, after all); all Henry needed was a couple of meaningful glances; it was clear he'd do anything for Shawn.

Shawn barely noticed their departures, he was so wrapped up in explaining. Adam heard his voice fraying, worn thin with pain. Shawn sounded like he'd already failed, like there was nothing left to do but mourn. But eventually he noticed the cleared space, clamped his jaw closed. He and Adam took to studying the words silently, each lost in their own uninhabited thought processes.

"Shawn, could I ask you something?" Marks began quietly, taking advantage of the few minutes the two had alone.

Shawn looked up, nodding, as if he didn't trust his own voice.

Marks licked his lips. "It's about Carlton—about last year."

"Okay," Shawn said, keeping the cursor of his memory from scrolling back too far. He guessed that Marks had specific questions, and it was sometimes too easy to pitch back too far—get lost in those long, intense weeks.

Marks took in a couple of breaths, then asked, "Why did you choose to help him? I was told you practically went out of your way—and I was also told the two of you are not . . . good friends."

Shawn smirked at that last remark. "No, we aren't—but I guess I think we are friends in a removed way. Like fifth cousin far removed—or however that stuff is figured out." He shrugged. "Lassie's not a people person, but he needs people—and people who like him—more than I think he wants to believe. And, dude, he's not an easy person to—" Shawn paused, seeing a knowing look in Marks' eyes. He stopped short with a cough, mumbling a version of apology under the noise.

"Anyway," Shawn continued, looking away for a moment. "Lassie was in trouble. I knew it right away, with a little help from the spirits"—Shawn pressed his fingers to his temples to illustrate— "they showed me that Lassiter was acting _more_ stubborn, _more_ argumentative, _more_ angry than usual. I just kept feeling that bad things—" Shawn looked back at Marks, not bothering to finish the thought. "Once I knew it, I knew that I had to do something. He was . . ." Shawn blinked, remembering the desperate state the usually cool and collected Head Detective had existed in—panicky, overtly paranoid, shaken. He remembered, out of the static, a stray comment from Gus about body snatchers or robot copies—had dismissed it immediately, because he'd imagined that a pod copy of Lassiter would have made the detective into a Stepford version—a sunny Juliet but without the intelligence or insight of either detective to fully back it up. "Like it or not, I knew I was the only person he had on his side—and eventually, he 'let' me help him because he knew it too."

Marks nodded, seeming deep in thought. After nearly a minute of silence Shawn asked, "Does that answer your questions? Or do you—"

Marks nodded again, pressing his lips together in the ghost of smile. He squeezed Shawn's shoulder. "Thank you," Adam said. "That's . . . what I was hoping to hear."

Shawn raised an eyebrow in question. He reeled through a list of possibilities as to why Marks wanted to know this right now—wondering, perhaps, if he was looking to see if there had be subtle changes to Shawn's morals and emotions that might subject his friends to harm or even death. Shawn balked internally then blurted aloud, without meaning to, "They're _my_ friends too! Both of them. I don't want to see Lassie or Jules get hurt—all I want is for this to be over with everyone okay." His voice had pitched without his realizing. "She—Yang—she wants me but she grabbed them instead. She should have just be man enough to come for me." He ignored the absurdity of this statement, telling himself it was okay because so many of them still referred to her as "Mr. Yang".

"Shawn," Marks soothed, giving him enough room to hang himself with any irrational comments. He could make the educated guess now just what was running through Shawn's head.

"Sir," Shawn said, the formality sounding funny in his own ears, "there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do if I knew it could get my friends out of harm's way."

The way Marks looked him over then made Shawn a bit uncomfortable; Shawn wondered just how much he knew about the lengths Shawn had gone to protect Lassiter's sanity and life when Lassie had been in need. Shawn couldn't help but wonder if dedication was the only thing Marks was considering; obviously, there was an extreme conflict of interest here, one that would have caused anyone else to be banned from the investigation. But in this case, Vick had _insisted_ that Shawn stay, in spite of how obviously emotional he was, in spite of it being _his_ friends who were gone.

Gone. It still made him dizzy to think about—and infuriated that Yang had found another profound way to get under his skin. Of all the people she might have targeted to get to him, Shawn never fathomed anyone from the SBPD—except for possibly his father, a retired member. Instead, he had been wondering over strangers he'd come in contact with within the past few days of Yang's known escape, retrospectively thinking that there was a chance Yang could use any one of them to taunt him in another way. Sure, she had her hands full, but it was impossible to tell if she wouldn't try something else.

What if, just when they were most focused upon the detectives' possible location, Yang would make her move—going out herself or sending Lightly, _that traitor_, out to hurt someone else? Any stranger who met Shawn briefly, any family, friends, or acquaintances could be at great risk. Shawn felt he needed to know where Gus and Henry were at all times; he found the most sense in this unreasonable game that they might be the most likely to be "next", if there was a "next time".

"What is it about me?" Shawn began, choking on his own spit as he realized he'd spoken this aloud. He was already under the impression that Marks thought he was a live wire, given that he'd just basically admitted that he'd do _anything_ (and had) to make a rescue. Maybe changing the subject for a few minutes was the safest bet.

"What is about you that Mr. Yang finds desirable?" Marks asked gently, raising his bushy eyebrows at him.

Shawn tried not to look disgusted at Marks' word choice; still, he couldn't help but think of the killer's flirtation when she had had him all to herself. But it had to be more than some weird physical attraction; Shawn wasn't sure he could fully trust what Mary Lightly had told him about Yang. Everything about the man seemed false now; the betrayal was sticky, impossible to wipe off.

"Why go to so much trouble—for _me_?" Even as he said, Shawn realized the absurdity of the statement; this was a killer who had, for others, "gone to so much trouble" as well, choosing carefully when it came to who might best her. Still, she must have reasoned that not all of them could be that _good_; what if the intention had been to try out her theory just once—to be caught the very first time around? Shawn felt himself straying into dangerous territory; it was not his job to be a profiler, to even want to know a little of Yang's motivations. That she was a sick person and a murderer should be enough, more than enough. But . . . there was a nagging curiosity. Why had she wanted him to like her? Why had she said with assurance that they would be working together again, as if _she_ was the _actual_ psychic—or was the one actually in control of all this?

Shawn really wanted to turn this whole thing over to Marks; he was confident that the former cop would throw himself into the rescue mission with the eagerness of a young rookie wanting to please—or show off. He wanted to return to the numb state he fell into when he first learned of the kidnapping—his mother's, actually. _Mommy says hi, and bye, just in case._

But the urge to run away was spent; he had an urgent requirement to see this one through, just as he had the last time. He had been shown proof of life because she had wanted to taunt him—because she wanted him . . . to belong to her. _Was that it?_

His mind tore back the translucent flap he'd secured over the images, holding them in perfect place inside a closed album. Without wanting to see, he'd opened the album anyway; the images fell into a blur. He put his hands to his temples so he could focus, then closed his eyes. For a second, he could summon their voices; just a few days earlier he'd been at the station, bickering with Lassiter over the outcome of a case, flirting with Juliet while Gus impatiently tapped his foot. In every snapshot, Juliet and Lassiter were imploring help; Shawn saw their bruises, ashen complexions, blood that had caked on either side of their heads—from the accident, where they'd hit their respective car windows. He gulped with shame.

Shawn was suddenly aware he'd been silent for more than a few seconds of a pause. He opened his eyes to find Marks staring at him with that unreadable expression. The last thing he needed, Shawn thought, was for this former police officer to cast him off. He needed to be involved in as many aspects as necessary—especially because he wasn't sure, beside the point of speculation, what Yang's intentions for him were. Just as he was about to make up an answer to his own questions, Marks spoke.

"Shawn, what you need to understand here is that, even with years of study, theorizing and thorough investigating, the factor which drives certain criminal behavior is never learned—who they are or why they choose their victims or crimes. Sometimes, the reasons are too gray. As an outside perspective, I would speculate that this particular killer latched onto you because of your highly publicized success rate when it comes to solving crimes. Perhaps because she had easy access to you through the media, she began to think of you as her rival—and wondered if there was a way you would be able to catch her too."

"Like she wanted to be caught?" Shawn breathed. He felt dizzy again for a moment; trapped inside the car with her.

Marks shrugged. "It's possible." He patted Shawn's arm. "It's also possible that she believed she was invincible . . . that she would . . ." Marks dropped his voice, ". . . would crush you, as she had everyone before you."

Shawn's mouth twitched at his words. If Marks had intended them to scare Shawn, they had the opposite effect—a flare of anger for Yang's callousness, believing that Shawn Spencer would go down with so little fight. Perhaps Marks had intended what he said to remind Shawn of his purpose; well, then. He felt himself square his shoulders.

What if she knew . . . about Shawn practically singlehandedly going after that dangerous Notte family? He felt his lip curl; was it possible she could be jealous? Shawn shook his head quickly; he'd rather not get the chance to discuss the operation with her—or know what about it made her the most jealous. He said, "I guess it doesn't matter." He set his eyes on Marks. "But you're here to help us figure out what we might have been blind to before."

"Second sight?" Marks offered playfully. His eyes twinkled.

Shawn heard himself groan. He couldn't imagine what this must sound like coming from a "psychic" to a former cop. "Gus?" he asked.

"He might have said," Marks confirmed. He paused. "Shawn, I want you to know that I fully believe that you are on board with this case, in spite of the hard difficulty of knowing the victims. But what I need you you know straight off is that I will not condone any attempts at heroism that put you in Yang's line of fire. You are not a bargaining chip, you are a resource." He raised an eyebrow, fixing a seriousness on Shawn.

Shawn tried not to falter; the man was smooth, capable of putting him at ease and putting the fear into him with the same look, with the same tone. He was telling Shawn that he was going to overlook what Shawn had said about "doing anything"—and was saying that he was going to keep Shawn on a very short leash. Briefly, Shawn felt trapped; he was partially hoping the outsider would be more lax, allowing him and Gus to launch their own side investigation to escape some of the tiresome and time consuming restrictions of police procedure. At this point, Shawn didn't care what was considered legal; Lassie and Jules could scream at him later for doing whatever was necessary to get them back safe. But it seemed that Marks was closer to another version of Henry or Vick—or Lassiter—than someone who would bend to his charming whims.

"Is this clear?" Marks asked, his tone slightly kinder than before.

Shawn nodded, having no choice. In spite of this blow, he still felt as if he could wholly trust Marks—could ask him questions the others wouldn't dare to answer.

Shawn wanted to, but couldn't yet form the words, ask about the likelihood of this ending well. Would the detectives be coming home in body bags—or would they be able to walk in on their own? Bloody, beaten, shot—he shivered—but alive, angry, determined to get back to work. Shawn really didn't mind the hypothetical screaming—they could call him all the names they wanted, yell that he'd never be a real cop and that he was nothing but a fool. They could blame him for everything and deny him forgiveness—but they needed to be here, inside the station walls, looking like hell warmed over. Looking—great.

Remotely, Shawn wondered if Marks' "test" hadn't really been about finding out which one he was about to play "god" with. Even under duress, Shawn resolved not to say it aloud. Besides which, Marks was trying too hard to quash the best alternative Shawn had in this situation.

He saw their faces again, their mouths taped shut. "What do we do first?"

# # #

Juliet stared at Lassiter; he had jumped his chair in line with hers. He looked like he had a plan. Juliet tried to figure out what it was, somewhere under the obvious relief that was all over his face as he looked back at her. At first, she was embarrassed for the over-spill of emotion—tears and hiccuped sobbing, but she forgot it quickly. Her actions had not led to her partner's death; no—Lassiter had a plan, and she needed to concentrate.

She realized why she had had a hard time focusing on the sound of his breathing—it was stuttered by the blood around his nose. For a few seconds, looking him over now, Juliet panicked; was there a chance he could suffocate? No, no. He looked to be doing okay—he had made it to her, after all. Neither of them tried to speak. The best advantage of learning this silent plan was that she got to keep looking him over; he was doing the same with her as he tried to "express it". The last time she had seen his face was back a while, before this place, and it had been quick, not long enough, and frightening. He'd gone down so fast, and she was sure . . .

Lassiter stared at his partner, angered by a new red bruise on her face, but he was overall relieved to find her alert. She was some kind of beautiful mess. She had stopped crying, so her breathing must be easier now. In all fairness, he wasn't sure what to do now. The urge to get to her had put him to action without thinking about the conclusion; he'd thought uselessly about a few impossible scenarios—getting the tape off, getting the cuffs off, getting free of the chairs, then making a break for it. Getting free without help wasn't realistic, but Lassiter wanted it so badly for O'Hara that he hadn't let himself think clearly. He turned the anger on himself, hoping she couldn't see it.

These situations weren't familiar to either of them; conversely, they were used to being on the _other_ side—the one where they were in charge of making the daring rescue, where the only helplessness they felt was at being barred by protocol, or when the criminal got the upper hand. They were used to being on the outside, looking in. Neither of them were comfortable with just sitting there, in this case, being actually forced to sit; it was only natural for one of them to wake and lift the veil of inaction, or try to.

As she looked him over, Juliet wondered if the next step wasn't her turn. Would she let Lassiter down if she turned up blank? The same thoughts occurred to her—now that they were closer, maybe they could work themselves free, then make a break for it. Lassiter was a faster runner; he could get to a phone and call in their location—Juliet stopped. Just where were they? It was impossible to tell just by looking at the room. She wished she had thought about an extra key or knife hidden in a belt buckle when they had been handcuffed together. She had none herself, but Lassiter might. But then . . . when hadn't he tried to reach for it? They had been close enough that he could have reached his own belt, moved it through the loops until he found the secret weapons. Juliet frowned to herself; she suspected both had been thoroughly frisked; their guns were missing so it wasn't a stretch to consider the keys to their handcuffs gone as well. Pen knives, night sticks, ammo, their cells and radios—and anything else that could be used to fight back or get them free.

She wished they'd had the sense to develop of system of communication that didn't require speech—other than what had arisen naturally from their partnership. They didn't have a code of any kind, not one where blinks represented words—but Juliet suddenly remembered they both knew Morse Code.

He was already looking at her, so she blinked out, "KEY?" going slowly so he could understand. Closing her eyes represented "dot" and opening, "dash". Juliet guessed that apprehension was holding both of them down—not even Lassiter could be immune—but she accepted that she had to take the next step. Lassiter was brave enough to risk retribution, so she had to also pull her weight.

It took him longer to realize what she was doing than it should have, Lassiter chided himself, but he felt lucky to discover his partner had a plan. He had to tell her now, in case they did get out of this. "YOU. RUN," he blinked. O'Hara shook her head, so he blinked it out again, but she looked very puzzled. She repeated her first message, "KEY."

_Key?_ Key to their cuffs, he reasoned. He figured that they had already been relieved of backups. A few shards of memory tilted against him; someone patting him down thoroughly as he'd writhed on the ground, but it was as distant as if it were someone else's dream. He shook his head at her distinctly.

She started another before he could repeat his very important message. "KNIFE?" Carlton felt a twinge of annoyance at her proactivity; how was he supposed to convey what he needed? Besides that, she was looking up to him, asking for the things that had been taken away from him—any small thing that could help them escape. He didn't want to fail her. It exasperated him that she couldn't immediately read his intentions; they had been partners long enough, he told himself. Had he never been clear enough that she should save herself—

Lassiter froze, kicking himself. Of course not. Of course not . . . she was his partner long enough to know that she needed to have his back at all times . . . and that she depended upon him to do the same with her. She knew that he'd never turn tail and run, so why would she? His shame almost shorted out his annoyance; there seemed like no possible way now to get the message across. Still, he tried again, blinking out, "RUN" then "ORDER"; just in case there was no chance to get the words out of his mouth.

Again, O'Hara stared back, her brow furrowed, shaking her head. She wondered if it was only the brittle terror of the these spare moments that was changing Lassiter's judgment; she thought she understood what he was trying to tell her, but she didn't have it in her heart to believe him. Instead, she found her own response, as defiant as she could be: "TOGETHER". Juliet wasn't surprised that Lassiter no longer retained any weapons to get them free, but she couldn't help but feel disappointed. She had hoped, distantly, that the disorientation from the accident and subsequent jolts from the stun gun he had taken had somehow jarred him into forgetting that he had even the tiniest bit of metal with which to pick the locks. She wished that she herself had thought far ahead enough to act as her own Houdini—pinning her hair with Bobby pins or tucking back the cuffs of her shirt with a safety pin or two. There wasn't any telling if these things would really work outside of a fictional setting, but it was best to use the resources available within any given environment. Or so Lassiter had told her. The smallest, most useless looking piece of crap might likely save your life.

But she had already scanned the room; nothing, useful or useless. No stray nail, no sharp objects.

But . . . Juliet's head snapped up, then swiveled to Lassiter's again. The keys. Their captors had to have them.

So . . . who was out there that they could best rely on to get them out of this? It was unlikely that they were going to find an ally in Lightly; he had gone from aiding and abiding to a full on perpetrator, holding an equal share in this with Yang. Still . . . he seemed the slightest bit twitchy about violence—or was she misreading it? If she were most honest with herself, she had viewed Lightly as harmless from the beginning; even Carlton, after making the few off-color remarks about profilers, hadn't found a thing out of the ordinary about him.

But Shawn . . . Juliet felt a spark. His words flooded back to her, the first impression he'd had of Lightly. He'd _known_ . . . Juliet shook her head to clear it, but the image of Shawn remained. He was out there somewhere, probably torn up dealing with their abductions—dealing with the rampant possibility of coming face to face again with Yang on her terms. Lassiter was staring at her, but neither seemed to know what to "say" now. What was running between them seemed clear enough to her: they _needed_ to get out of here before Yang had the chance to put her full plan in motion. _Before_ Shawn was made to choose; before all three of them ended up in body bags.

With a light whoosh, the door opened. Caught, Juliet and Lassiter waited, their hearts pounding in syncopation. Juliet made a subconscious flick of hand in her partner's direction, as if they were still in the car and she wanted to brace him from impact. The cuffs dug into her wrists.

# # #

It was unclear of who was more startled; neither the pair of bound detectives nor the singular figure betrayed any hint of wrongness, though Mary had, in fact, been the one to stop short at the unexpected. He had thought it impossible for their prisoners to rebel, especially while secured to chairs. He had a wet towel balled up in his hand; it was the only thing he could find when he searched the tiny half-bath for something clean. Why he had even looked was partially a mystery to him; at the scene of the accident, the dazed Head Detective had _shot_ him—but, Mary reasoned, he'd already retaliated to even the score. He had come here on an unasked favor to Yang; the woman might like to get blood on her hands but it wasn't about to help her cause if she lost one of her victims to suffocation or blood loss too early in the "game". Or so Mary told himself. It wasn't as if the police knew where they were—or even that Shawn Spencer knew yet—so if one of them happened to die . . .

Mary looked from one to the other, unable to make up his mind. He could easily dish up some punishment now; Yang was busy staring at dirt. Soundlessly, Mary sighed, approaching. He was impressed that neither detective flinched; both retained a coolness, in spite of their predicament, that was pronounced under the fear. Mary gulped to himself, worrying what would happen if—or when—they got free.

Mary moved around Lassiter's chair, ignoring the detective's hard looks. He draped the damp towel across his arm and gripped the back of the chair, intending to drag Lassiter back across the room. After a few hefts, Mary realized he couldn't do this alone; either the detective or the chair was too heavy—or was it that he couldn't be sure Lassiter wouldn't just move himself again?

Detective O'Hara was in the same spot she'd been left; in spite of the battering to the older detective's body, he'd managed to get himself to her. _Some will,_ Mary thought, nervous. He started to whip up a good explanation for Yang as he dragged Lassiter's chair as far he could—directly behind O'Hara's. The two were back to back again; it seemed fitting to find zip ties to make certain they stayed like that. Lassiter glared at him the entire time, looking ready to spit nails. Mary gave away nothing (he hoped), brushing past the two of them, out of sight. He had the zip ties on him, but thought a little illusion was better than nothing, and returned with them in hand. He hadn't done a perfect job of lining up the chair backs, but pulled the plastic ties as taut as possible. When he was done, Mary felt slightly foolish, even dizzy, as he examined his handiwork. The reality of what he was doing hit him irregularly, asking him with force just what the hell he thought he was doing, and what it was all good for.

But . . . this wasn't just any criminal, this was the _Yin Yang serial killer_, a case he'd become interested in at the tender age of twenty; it had hit his radar after her very first public game and eventual loss of life. There were three bodies; four, if the eventual suicide of the very first target could be included. She'd rocked Santa Barbara with devastation, ruination, bafflement, horror, and all he'd wanted was . . . to know more. Now he was close enough to actually get inside her head: wind himself down the narrow, dilapidated hallways, wander the blind clearings, stop dead whenever he got a nose full of fresh blood. He was on the front lines of her latest rhymes, he was watching her fervor destroy her—against her latest target, he wasn't convinced she could win.

Shawn had already beaten her once—or had he? For all the prison visits, Yang hadn't given anything away—yet, she hadn't given Shawn the credit either.

Sighing, audibly this time, Mary went around to the front of Lassiter's chair. With duty—loyalty—in mind, he retrieved the towel from his arm and began to dab it at the blood on the detective's face. Now, the detective flinched, but Mary ignored it, cleaning up as much as Yang's mess as he could.

Huh. Sick as it might be, Mary decided he liked that—being Yang's "cleaner". Certainly, it would never make him her equal, not in her eyes, but he wanted to . . . take care of her, in his own way. Keep her . . . keep her from getting too enamored with herself . . . and with Shawn Spencer.

# # #

Keys, she had them in her hands, clutched them with her fingers, traced their shape, felt the shiny metal, hard and cool against her skin. She was tempted to bury them, press them neatly into the earth—make Shawn dig for them, flat to the ground, shoving dirt into his mouth. Yang trilled giggles under her breath. She could get him to do it, she was pretty sure—if she laced it up in a riddle, he wouldn't hesitate.

Yang's mouth dipped into a pout. She knew Shawn would do _anything_ for them; it staggered her to even guess how much Shawn valued human life. _Theirs_, especially. He'd put his life on the line for virtual strangers before; friends, family, however, were much more sacred. All she needed was the perfect bait. _Eat dirt, Shawny. _

_He's . . . going to figure it out, soon enough, _Violet told herself. She had prepared herself to hold on; had already tried on her "I'm so disappointed in you" face—but the truth was, it was killing her to wait to see him. But the clue wasn't too hard for him; no, she believed he'd already "read between the lines", or in this case, read her lips. She smiled wickedly to no one.


	11. Chapter 10: Walking The Road To Dead

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Also don't often references to _A_ _Nightmare on Elm Street_, _Halloween_, _Ghostbusters_, DJ Venom's song "Halloween Theme (Hard House Mix)", or Astroturf. Research for this chapter is credited to this site:

http:/cartas[dot]typepad[dot]com/main/2009/10/santa-barbara-cemetery-[dot]html

Author's Note: Okay, so I know, very long wait. Good news though (in case anyone is still reading)—next chapter is virtually all the way written so the updating time should be much shorter. :)

Again, there are references in this chapter to my previous story, "**Ask For Another Day**", but reading that story is not required to understand the references made.

Reviews, constructive criticism, and feedback are welcomed and appreciated! Thanks and enjoy!

_###############################################################################################################_

**Chapter Ten:**** Walking Down The Road To Dead**

_################################################################################################################_

# # #

How they got onto the subject of Lassiter as a youngster cop was beyond Shawn, but he didn't squelch it because as Marks talked about his own early days in the SBPD, he digested the heavy questions and concerns that had passed between them, the weighted words and silences, and that which went unspoken sitting in Shawn's stomach like a rock. _That_, of course, went undigested.

"So, what was Lassie like back in the Dark Ages?" Shawn asked offhandedly, when Marks

paused for too long.

"He was about as tame as a thunderbolt," Marks answered, his features gathering up faint amusement.

Shawn's eyes widened; he was taken aback. He found it difficult to imagine Lassiter as anything other than buttoned down and by-the-book, except when it came to the number of times while on duty that he was allowed to fire his weapon. "Lassie was reckless?" he asked slowly. "That dog!"

"Well," Adam began, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Not so much _reckless_ . . ."

A smile tugged up Shawn's lips. He thought of the future, skipping the present entirely; he couldn't wait to tease Lassiter about his apparently wayward early days. Shawn thought of the best way to do it; he felt he needed to shield Marks from whatever the retired Sgt. let slip—but he loved the idea of embarrassing Lassiter in front of Juliet or Vick or Buzz—or all of the above—with this clandestine information. Even if Marks were to swear him to secrecy—well, there was no _telling_ when it came to the _spirits_. The spirits, after all, didn't have any qualms about spilling secrets. Shawn smirked.

"He kept some of it," Marks admitted, again catching Shawn off guard. "Except he was smart enough to put it to good use."

"How?" Shawn blurted.

"Put it towards his passion," Marks explained. "It helped his focus when it came to his love of gun play, getting the good shots on the target—and, what he called, in his own words, 'busting dirtbags.'" He paused, then stared at Shawn with question. "Does he still eschew sleep?"

For a minute, Shawn was puzzled. He wondered, exactly, what Marks' definition of "reckless" was—or what it was when it came to Lassie. He actually wanted to hear the juicy stories, if there were any; for the moment, he was convinced Marks was trying to sell him tall tales. He expected Marks to brush it off with a vague catch phrase— "That's how boys are" or worse, "That's what's it's like when you're a rookie."

But Shawn caught Marks searching, the older man's eyes moving back and forth behind the wrinkled skin of his lids. Was he trying . . . to find Shawn the most _tame_ example? "Come on," Shawn goaded gently, "prove Lassie was some kind of firecracker back in the day." He grinned with his dare, watching Marks' features soften. Still, he remained guarded about the eyes, which struck Shawn as curious; if this didn't pan out, later he needed to find some way to pick the former Sgt.'s brain.

"Less firecracker, more . . ." Again, Marks paused to choose the right word. Shawn almost wished he could read thoughts; he wanted the unedited version . . . didn't he? He wanted . . . wanted _proof_ _of life_ . . .

Shawn fought to hold onto the moment; he dug his fingernails into it, making fists of air.

Adam didn't seem to notice his dilemma. Instead, he was tossing through the past as if it were a stack of old clothes; somewhere, buried, was the good stuff—maybe dusty, maybe bitten up by some tiny sets of teeth, but still perfectly good. "We weren't partners for long, you must understand," he told Shawn, "but I feel conceited enough to say I believe I left a good impression upon him."

It wavered; there was a short burst of fear. This time, Shawn pretended he did not see it. This tale was not a tall one; instead, the fear was real enough because, Shawn guessed remotely, feeling his stomach flip, the last thing Marks had just told him might be a lie. Maybe not outright, but Lassie was missing, and there was no guarantee he was going to come back. Shawn felt the moments of good humor slipping; a gruesome worry made a comeback, sinking him first from the inside.

Now . . . now he had to know where this was going. If he didn't know . . . Out of a learned instinct, Shawn's fingers shot up, pressed against his temples. He only had to make up a little—because he didn't know (or did he?—Was it under, was he already reading between the lines?), and then Marks would fill in the blanks? It was hard to say; the man before him was obviously very careful; it wasn't that hard, however, for Shawn to believe that this man had had some influence on Lassie.

Shawn took what little information he'd learned just now—and what he already knew about Lassie, and spun both into what might be useful. "I'm seeing a . . . stubborn rebel, flashing his shiny new badge, hell bent to . . ." Shawn faltered; try as he did, he couldn't picture Lassiter not enjoying the structure and order that came with every aspect of police work. Everything Shawn loathed.

Maybe this was part of the reason it bothered him . . . was there a sick chance that Lassie had somehow been like him, years before, the listless, easily bored, shifting Shawn who couldn't stand to stay still in just one place? Shawn shook his head; there was a lurch inside his mind. Shawn ducked, his hands still tight against his head. He groaned, blinded by the flash of thought.

Was there a chance . . . ? He blurted it aloud before he could stop himself, before he could change his mind. "I see a young man headed for the wrong side of the law," Shawn said, still hunched over. "He doesn't think he can be redeemed . . . so he . . . puts himself into the line of fire. . . ."

Shawn gasped, startled, when Marks gripped his shoulder, jerked him upright. There was a wild look in the Sgt.'s eyes: Shawn read it quickly, paraphrasing the 'stage-whispered' _"How did you know that?" _

There was a chance, however, that Shawn was entirely off the mark. Off the . . . he giggled to himself. He wasn't always right; Gus, his father, and everyone else in the vicinity were very quick to point out how wrong he was—during those _brief_ misfires. But Marks wasn't telling him a thing, Shawn insisted to himself, and he'd needed to find out. . . . As he glanced at the wild look again, there was a note of warning which shot to his subconscious. Marks, Shawn realized slowly, had come here to offer protection. That's what he'd (possibly) offered to Lassie, then, protection and guidance—for someone whose intentions were still made up, regardless . . . to walk straight into the fire.

She was . . . she was the fire, then? Yang? Shawn looked over Marks' shoulder, fixing his eyes to a blank point on the wall. Or was it . . . the female of the species, who was fire? Was it really . . . Juliet? Was she too hot to touch but strong enough—a blue-white flame—to draw him as close to her as he dared? Look right into her eyes and urge him . . . to quench her?

He was missing something here; he was aware that he knew it, that it had already run him through but now he'd become lost in the forest land of Jules . . .

Marks still had a good grip on Shawn's shoulder; with a few gentle squeezes, he brought the young man back around. "You're right," he told Shawn quietly, dropping his voice enough to get Shawn to lean in; he wanted to know for certain that Shawn was with him, paying attention. "He was partnered with me when he was at the age where he knew both everything and nothing in the same step. He wanted to be a cop, wanted to be a detective—yesterday—but he lacked the experience . . . he . . . he was malleable but he didn't want to be moulded into anything too safe, if you can believe it. He'd stuck his neck out one too many times . . . he was a bit troubled."

Shawn listened; Marks' opening up caught his attention. Apparently, what his fake "vision" had fed his mouth had been closer to the truth than he'd imagined.

"Carlton . . . I think he'd chosen to be blind to what he was doing; somewhere along the line he got himself convinced he wasn't to show anything when it came to danger. In some ways, this was a good thing," Marks continued steadily, "but other ways, he was hurting himself." Marks paused; his eyes shimmered for a few seconds. "He'd convinced himself that there wasn't anyone on his side, you see. Sure, he had his brothers in blue, but he knew he was just one of many."

Marks broke off again, leaving Shawn to wonder his own set of wild thoughts. Was this part of why the Sgt. had wanted to protect him—was there a dark underbelly that he was hoping to keep Shawn shielded from? "You're not saying that Lassie . . ." Shawn thought of a good way to phrase it without making it sound horrible; his stomach did a little flip, but he made himself come back from the edge. Lassie wanted to be a cop, Marks had said. He wanted to be a detective as soon as he could, and was enraged that he lacked experience to become one even sooner. So he . . . put himself in (the most?) dangerous situations so he could gain needed experience faster?

Marks had both eyebrows raised, waiting. Shawn sighed, hating himself for asking it. "Lassie wanted to live, didn't he? He wasn't trying to . . ."

Marks' face flooded with a strange relief, tainted only by an obvious sadness which sat at the corner of his features. He nodded finally. "Carlton saw himself as almost alone in the world—free. Thinking he didn't need anyone . . . and that no one needed him." Marks paused thoughtfully. "Lucky for him, he got me and I knocked sense into his thick head." The sadness was still there, but the twinkling had returned to his eyes. Shawn guessed the subject was "closed" for now, but it was still going to be on _his_ mind for a while.

He raised an eyebrow. "You too, Shawn?" Shawn read the twinkling as a "jab" at Lassie's current thickheadedness, but he could also understand what Marks was really asking him. Their earlier conversation about last year wasn't that far away—or at all forgotten. Shawn nodded, a lump in his throat. "Yeah," he finally managed.

"Good to hear it," Marks said. He did sound glad.

They fell back into studying the board.

_Low hear our ear Ill row._ Adam's eyes read the clue again, again.

Roman numerals, possibly. Three. Row three. Third row. Third row where?

Low . . . our ear. He scratched out "hear" for the time being, and studied the original clue. _Two slow. Where your fear will grow._

Where were ears low to the ground, or too low to . . . hear? Low . . . slow . . . grow . . . row.

The more he looked it over, the surer Adam was of the answer. "Shawn, I believe you've already worked out the solution—but you've discarded it because it was much too easy an answer," Marks told him.

Shawn whipped his head towards Marks. He couldn't understand what he was hearing, and his mind reloaded the entire program of the clue, from its discovery to their extensive attempts at deciphering it.

"It's right here," Marks said, "or at least I believe it is, but you tell me," pointing to the non-rhyming sentences that Shawn and Gus had pulled out of the original clue. "You see, there's still two—two sentences, and the second one is just another way of saying what the second sentence of the first riddle said."

Shawn watched Marks tap the board, his eyes running over the sentences snapping him out of his trek of memory.

_You fight your sight._

_Low hear our ear Ill row._

"The first—it's just another taunt, isn't it?" Shawn said bitterly. "Like, hey, you're too slow! You couldn't save them! Now you can't see them either!"

Marks shook his head. "Closer, Shawn. _Don't_ fight your sight! Think about it! Yang chose, for her showdown with you, a drive-in to hold her victim and to blend in. No one was the wiser—until you figured out where to go. Shawn," he prodded, "doesn't she crave death?"

Gus, returning with the water, caught the tail end of Marks' words and stopped in the doorway. He looked puzzled.

Shawn gripped the edge of the table. The movie at the drive-in that evening had been some moldy classic about a town-eating-fire; the sirens of the firetrucks from the projector's audio track were hollow; the police outside their tiny drop of mayhem had waited for his all-clear signal.

It was a public place—packed full with an unwitting audience. Had she chosen to be seen by anyone besides her intended—to make her presence known—she would have done it by blowing up the car. What if she had chosen another such place—? Shawn pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes. Marks was right, he had already riddled out the riddle and discarded it . . . because it wasn't _public_ enough. There might be less risk for unsuspecting causalities. Still, she could fit in perfectly, be just one of the "crowd"—be right at _home_.

He released his eyes and felt, briefly, his brush with death when it came to her. He couldn't be sure if he'd really talked his way out of it—out of a mass murder-suicide pact she'd made with only herself—or she had planned all along to let him go.

Less risk in such a space—if he was right, if Marks was, too—meant that she had more freedom, more control.

"Shawn?" Gus asked, stepping into the room, setting the water down on the table then heading towards his friend.

"Gus!" Shawn gasped, grabbing Gus' arm. "Get the Chief! I know—I know where they are!"

# # #

Fifteen years ago or more—twenty, more, if he was being honest—there was nothing beside this bleak stretch of road except for the cemetery, with its granite headstones and local sandstone monuments and thin pathways, ground packed and worn by an endless stream of foot traffic. Its entrance was a Gothic-style wrought iron gate, a sign just above the curled black iron announcing it as Santa Barbara Cemetery, as if there was ever any doubt as to where you were, where you had been going. Like other superstitious children at that young age, he and Gus would hold their breaths until their parents' cars had passed—the bumper at least half an inch away from that hallowed ground before they could tease each other about how silly it was to play that game.

But they'd played it again and again.

Gus had "secretly" continued the practice well into adulthood in spite of the many, many times Shawn had tricked or scared him into releasing his breath when they were only halfway passed, as children, and still, as adults. It was always a good laugh, his friend's religious superstitions, the obsessive rituals he continued with—the spaces he continued to avoid—because he was certain he was doing right. Right by his soul, or something else Shawn couldn't comprehend for the life of him. It had been a game then, a dare, a challenge—who could hold their own breath in the longest was safe—who could not, taking in the shallow breaths, risked an early grave granted by the roaming spirits—the ones Shawn had goaded Gus into believing could squeeze their ghostly faces through cracks in windows and trade places with the living.

These goads often gave Shawn nightmares later, but he never admitted these things to Gus.

Pristine and manicured, Shawn noticed immediately, with not a piece of litter in sight, and no other sounds besides his own shoes scraping the alternately the dirt and paved paths not quite wide enough for those larger SUVs that had become popular in recent years. From this angle he couldn't quite see all of the headstones, as the cemetery was just brand new in 1860 and plots were scrunched well into the back. Sixty acres of this, over 45,000 graves, and for just a smidgen over $80,000 could your loved ones take their eternal rest ocean-side. This was, after all, a designer cemetery; surely, nowhere on the East coast was a graveyard with a beautiful water view, or palm trees, or copious amounts of sod and Astroturf near the entrance and the better kept crypts.

He noticed a change in condition and shape of the headstones the deeper he went. To his left, in a far corner, he saw the headstones resembled more slabs of marble, highly aged—covered with moss, some inscriptions no longer legible. With a gulp, to his right or his left as he walked, he found his eyes lingering on the above-ground burial crypts, rectangular in shape, as if the dead within such a coffin could not bear the idea of going underground. Shawn was even gladder Gus hadn't accompanied him, in spite of wanting his best friend's company to allay his nerves.

They should never road trip to New Orleans, Shawn thought distantly, knowing how strong a reaction Gus would have to just being in the same city where all the dead resided above ground.

Shawn gripped the envelope that had been waiting for at the cemetery's gates; he'd pulled out the latest riddle, took a quick picture of it and sent it to Gus. At the header, a blue and orange yin yang, and below, another riddle.

_Meet at dusk: come alone, it's a must. _

_You know where to go, row, row, row. _

_Make your choice and roll the dice,_

_this time I will show you ice._

Shawn actually wanted to question Yang about her change-up—the flares of color for the yin yang and her even more cryptic riddles. Was it her stint in jail? The fact that her face was now a public image? His heart sank at finding this latest game prelude; he had already wasted too much time over-thinking the last one; even worse, she had somehow been tipped off that he finally knew the place to go—

With all honestly, the riddle could have been here for hours and hours, maybe even days, but Shawn couldn't help but wonder if he'd opened up to the wrong person; if it hadn't been better to treat the former Sgt. like a stranger. He imagined Gus giving Marks enough suspicious looks for the both of them, and kicking himself for leaving Shawn alone in the same room with a possibly untrustworthy man.

"_Come alone, it's a must."_ Perhaps he did bear a touch of divination.

Shawn entered with the only weapon he agreed to take, his cell phone, promising to text every few minutes, but the stinging air, hot and mocking and the silence of the place itself blurred the minutes. Early on, he was able to send Gus messages like "I ain't afraid of no ghosts" and "Do you believe in the boogeyman?" and "I am talking about the real possibility that he is still out there!" until Gus finally responded with a SHAWN! loud enough for Shawn to almost hear.

When a light rain pattered down, in the thick of it, Shawn released his breath. There was no way of holding it in. He wondered if he could still go to hell. The nightmares he would have now. He looked, slowly turning his head, hoping to moved by something other than the eerie silence—two words Shawn had never adjusted to, least of all when they were bound together, adjective-noun, as if a perfect fit.

He hadn't seen anything yet, and still the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He only had a vague idea of where he was heading, where Row III sat. On the blueprints Vick had had brought into the station, it was of the furthest in, well passed designer death, resting in a time when the cemetery was still new.

This cemetery held the remains of Spencer family members: grandmother, grandfather, great-grands, distant cousins and many more that Shawn tried not to think of; they had been happy enough to go out with burial packages at less than $10,000 each. Shawn was relieved the three Spencers remaining up-ground were still fiercely kicking—though, here, he might really be pressing his luck.

Sharp, hard, cold, silence, he kept seeing these—grave markers, black iron-wrought fences, monuments. He couldn't hear anything, not even a whimper or a laugh, not even the footsteps of some ordinary passersby, not privy to the announcement of the SBPD to stay the hell away.

A few acres, Vick had discovered upon a call to the city, were undergoing construction; those beyond were difficult to reach with a regular vehicle, and had been cordoned off from visitors as a hazardous zone. "Of course she'll be close," Shawn told Vick quietly.

"Then so will we," Vick retorted.

The vans were discreet, to be just outside the cemetery gates on all sides, and Shawn would have a head start of sorts from SBPD tails and other armed, plain clothed officers who had volunteered to play mourners. Gus insisted he go also, but Shawn had said no before Vick could.

"She's expecting me, just me," Shawn said. "I have to go alone."

"What if it's a trap?" Gus threw out. That's all he could muster aloud; there were images of his best friend's demise plying his eyes and he just wanted to banish them.

"I have to do this," Shawn had hissed to Gus, ignoring Henry completely; if Henry had had his way, Shawn would be handcuffed to the bars of one of the SBPD's holding cells. He clasped his hands. "What if she kills them before I can get there because she feels trapped? It would be nothing for her to kill them," he added grimly.

As he walked, keeping a focused lookout, Shawn pieced together the new riddle, his chest tightening with every step. This one was far more straight forward; he knew what was waiting ahead but he didn't know who, exactly. He knew he had to finally reveal his choice—give the answer Yang waited all this time to hear.

# # #

He had dressed up for her, she noticed, changing his shirt to a red button-down; smart, making himself so visible among this landscape of white and gray. But she could also see him coming from way off, walking slowly as if trying to resist the pull of a magnet.

Mary had told her, via the phone call he'd tapped into from the SBPD, that Shawn was on to them. "He's coming? Right now?" she'd squealed. "Oh! Oh, my! We have to get ready!"

It took only the threat of the stun gun held on the other to bring both of them to move. Yang held the back of Juliet's hair tightly as she made her climb the stairs. As they were secured in place, Juliet caught her partner's eye. The sky was just beginning to lose its blue but the air was still stifling.

"That's my favorite color," Yang giggled, peering around the taller monuments when Shawn walked her way.

# # #

Shawn froze, staring ahead of him, his mind and eyes moving quickly, adjusting to the mocking sunset. The light rain stopped after twenty minutes, but the bare skin of his neck and arms reminded him of chill. He had already endured much too long a walk in virtual silence; by the time he was close enough, he was unable to swallow the dread which had built up in his throat.

Shawn fought back a gasp, several, as he fully took in the scene before him. It was grotesque and staged and strange, but he felt partially relieved; the Juliet and the Lassiter of the photographs were not dead, as it had been threatened—suggested—to him many times. He wished he hadn't refused an ear piece—any kind of connection to the armed professionals—but he had worried they would distract him. That he would finally listen to his father and his best friend telling him to walk away.

The last text he'd sent felt like years ago, informing Vick and everyone of his whereabouts via landmarks—particularly large headstones, including one especially haunting—a baby in a diaper painted on the stone, standing up to take what looked like its first earthly steps. He wished he could snap a quick picture with his phone so he could share this oddity with someone; he wondered with a lurch how long they had been posed like that, just awaiting his arrival.

Then he noticed that none of them wore recently damp clothing—they had missed the rain. His eyes narrowed, but he steeled himself and continued forward, feeling weaker and number with every step.

But Shawn realized he now faced a hostage situation usually reserved for SWAT, and as many officers as a police department could spare on scene, entirely alone. Not entirely, he corrected himself silently, but it sure as hell felt that way. And he usually enjoyed being the center of attention. Not now, not since this case began.

His destination was just ahead—the side of an aged stone building, modest enough on its outside to not betray its use, almost, but the black wrought-iron fence surrounding it gave off a vibe loud enough for even the most non-psychic personnel to understand. It was much newer than the small crypt, erected to keep out intruders or keep the dead within, its small black spires poking mercilessly at the blank sky.

They were both pale, with dark circles under their eyes. Blood had caked, or dried, across their faces, necks, hairlines and clothes, and Shawn could see fear, anger and anticipation—possibly dismemberment, from Lassie—twisting through both pairs of their eyes as they glared at him. Juliet, Shawn saw, also wore what must be disappointment. Against his better judgment, he flashed them a quick grin, as if to say, "It's okay, I've got this." Besides the duct tape, Shawn saw that their hands had been cuffed over their heads around the fence.

But this was only the half of it.

They both had guards who had weapons to their throats. Mary, who was propped up the cement barrier just under the fence, held what Shawn considered to be a thick cord taut around Lassiter's throat, just below his Adam's apple. Mary was staring back at Shawn with the coldest, creepiest expression Lightly had ever made; had he been Yang's understudy all along? Had he learned well?

Yang, wearing a girlish grin, guarded Juliet with a small knife against the side of Juliet's neck. Juliet flinched when she noticed Shawn. It seemed, only seconds before, Yang had been whispering in Juliet's ear, poking her skin with the tip of the blade; Shawn could see blotchy marks on Juliet's neck. He had to resist hard from making demands; they were coming up on End Game here, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Yet he guessed this rescue wasn't going to take on the shape of last time, how remotely _easy_ it was to get Yang to surrender.

"Shawn! Shawn! You made it! I knew you would!" Yang squealed out, forcing him to pause mid-step. He chided himself for being a chicken, but tried to not look at Jules or Lassiter again, because it scared the hell out of him. "Shawn, what a beautiful color on you!" Shawn made a quick note to self to burn whatever red clothing he had left in his wardrobe.

"Did you come alone, Shawn?"

Shawn waved the envelope, then dropped it, and showed his empty hands. "Gus was totally peeved he had to miss out on all this. Blood, curses, dead people—you really denied him a good time."

Yang giggled, and increased pressure on her blade. Juliet winced. "I mean it, Shawn."

"Do you _see_ anyone else here?" Shawn yelled suddenly, jerking his head from side to side. "I don't! Do you? Do you?"

The four pairs of eyes on him never retreated. He looked over the detectives as discreetly as he could warrant. Lassiter looked worst of the two; Shawn was guiltily thankful for that. Shawn made himself not look at Juliet too long, instead, shifted his eyes quickly to Yang as if eager to do what she wanted down to the letter.

"No, Shawny, I have to say I do not." She was appraising him with black eyes. "Good boy." She pulled the blade from Juliet's neck and used to tip to touch where her own heart might be. "You really care."

"Fine, yeah," Shawn said, distractedly, resisting an urge to glance behind him. "Look, I'm here now. You've got me. Or I've got you," he called out, focusing only on Yang. "What do we do now?"

"Do you ever think about death, Shawn?" Yang asked. "About dying?" Her voice was just a few octaves too low to make out clearly enough from here. Shawn stepped forward, feeling the weight of both detectives' eyes trying to shove him back. He pretended not to feel like he was dying—or killing them—as he walked nearer, of his own volition. He felt an unexplainable awe that both of them—in the position they were in—looked as if they still had a duty to protect _him_. Keep _him_ safe.

"I try not to," Shawn replied. "It's a depressing topic, not a party favorite."

Yang grinned wider. "That's what I love about you, Shawn," she said boldly. Shawn noticed that Lightly had been affected by one of these words; he jerked out of his statuesque state, his hands dropping a fraction the cord he held to his captive's neck.

"You _love_ me?" Shawn asked, forcing himself to be neutral. "Like with letters and little cartoonish doodles of hearts love me? You don't even know me."

She panted, "It's more then just a crush. You're a celebrity in my world."

"Not just in _your_ world," Shawn deflected.

She laughed affectionately. "You're right. Of course you are. That's another thing I love about you." Yang eased the blade closer to Juliet's skin, making Juliet press herself further against the thin posts at her back. There wasn't anywhere to go. Beyond the fence was the Gothic structure of marble chambers—she'd only had a glimpse.

Shawn wished Gus _was_ here, wish he'd sneaked in behind Shawn, and was pressed so tight to a tombstone the death year's etching was now a part of his face. Still, Vick and the rest were just outside, on all perimeters, surrounding them—perhaps, Shawn hoped—hiding behind tombstones with rifles and all other means of department issue firepower.

Vick had taken him, in a quiet moment—when Henry and Gus had not been at his side, diligent helicopters—aside to squeeze his shoulder and express her faith in him. Still, there was a tremble under her assuredness; Shawn felt uncomfortable to realize he could see her mask slipping down—she did not want to care this much, but she did. She did not want to sacrifice them—so he had better not either. Shawn had been unnerved by the warning; all the plans for success were on him; this was the game six months prior magnified one hundred times. He wanted to leave, head to the men's bathroom and throw up in the sink, but Shawn made himself stay. He made himself not ask Vick why she had hired him in the first place—more than three years ago, now. Especially, if she had known what he could have never guessed—not being psychic, after all—that, because of him, her two most valuable detectives might die. Die of murder.

"You're not going to fail," she'd said. Shawn felt his face go numb. "No," he'd said, not knowing.

"I've been waiting for you, Shawn," Yang singsonged, bringing him back. "I didn't think I made it that hard for you! After all, you've figured out the riddle left on the gate, haven't you?"

Shawn shrugged, giving her nothing.

"I suppose I can't fault you much," Yang continued graciously with a shark-like grin. "Did you know, Shawn, you are my best opponent? How evenly matched we are?" Yang sounded too dreamy for his liking, her voice just a bit too soft; again, he had to move closer.

"I told you already, I'm—I'm not your Yin," Shawn ventured. "I don't—I can't—complete you. And I don't like death. We're not alike."

Yang paused long enough for a change of face. "Oh, but you do like death." Her eyes darkened, and she jerked the blade from Juliet's throat to jab it towards him, drawing a quick, thin line. Shawn's eyes went immediately to the fresh blood; the back of his head throbbed. Now he was before them, causing Juliet pain with his vocal missteps. "You can't know that from only meeting me once. I had time to think, Shawny. I expected so much of you, and yet you delivered! But I should have known you would have needed time. Boys take so much longer to mature than us girls." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you know the real reason why I didn't kill your mother?"

Shawn's breath caught; he scrolled back through the scene; he had it on speed dial of course, could easily quote every line. "Because . . . you wanted me to like you." He frowned sharply, and gestured towards them. "I have to be honest, this here, isn't helping your popularity." She regarded him with cool eyes. Shawn took a quick look at Lassiter and Juliet, noticing that their legs were not bound, and they seemed free of wires or other devices that could be . . .

He breathed aloud, a ragged sound as if he'd been running for miles. How could he be sure she hadn't strapped them up with something? They were chained down, for god's sake, to a heavy, solid structure rooted to the earth. He could see why they weren't going anywhere. Could he still save them both?

"Why did you pick me?" Shawn demanded suddenly. If he thought about bombs and explosions and his friends blowing up, or ending up garroted or with throats cut in other creative ways, he was never going to get anywhere. Also, Gus might be tripping over a rock somewhere.

"Shawn," Yang stage-whispered through the corner of her mouth. She rocked up on tiptoes, causing Juliet to flinch. "That question is much too personal to explain in front of others."

"I have nothing to hide," Shawn called out. "You can say whatever you want in front of them—"

Yang shook her head, looking angry.

Shawn bit his tongue; he wanted to rant to her, inform her what a big mistake she'd made a second time around, attacking those he cared about. But he didn't want to make her angry when she was still in control.

"So, then, Shawny, to my puzzle. It's time for you to roll the dice." Shawn swallowed at the wicked twinkling in her eye. "Now, tell me, pretty baby, who do you choose?" She pulled the blade from Juliet and jabbed it in his direction again. "It's up to you, who's going live and who's going to die?"

Shawn's eyes flicked from one detective to the other as if he were seriously considering making her choice. He knew she was pulling the strings—and he had already seen once, up close, what she wanted.

Again, he forced himself to stay silent. Both detectives wore impassible expressions; Shawn had bought them extra time to practice while he tried to figure out just where he needed to go. He knew one thing for certain—he had no interest whatsoever in understanding what Yang meant by _"This time I will show you ice."_

"I'm waiting," Yang pressed, raising on tiptoes again, opening her dark eyes wider; her teeth bared like a predator.

"I choose . . ." Shawn held it, making a grand show of looking between the detectives again, as if the choice wasn't on the tip of his tongue. As if his armpits weren't soaked with cold sweat, as if the hair wasn't prickling at the back of his neck. "I choose . . . I . . . choose . . . me," Shawn said.


	12. Chapter 11: The Devil Took You Back

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Do not own Jell-O.

Author's Note: Millions of thanks to my readers and reviewers, even more to those still hanging in there in spite of the long lengths of time between updates. You all mean the world to me, I am so grateful and happy to have you along for the ride! Enjoy!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Thank you!

################################################################################################################

**Chapter Eleven: The Devil Came And Took You Back, And Now Your Life Is In His Hands**

################################################################################################################

The silence lasted much longer in Shawn's head than in actuality. On his tongue was giddiness but in his throat was bile. He felt freed by his admission, yet his chest was tight. It was hard to take a breath, to inhale without expelling it immediately before his brain registered the oxygen, kept the nutrients it needed. Shawn felt dazed.

These were the words he had known he would say aloud, but he hadn't practiced them, not in the mirror, even silently to his own reflection, or let them slide by Gus.

In fact, he could hear Gus's exclamation burst the silence in his head: "You must be out of your damn mind!"

The first sounds Shawn could make out over the pounding in his ears were the angry but muffled protests from both detectives. Unwillingly, Shawn let his eyes and mind sweep over them again, taking in the whole tableau. What in the world was Yang accomplishing by staging the two of them like that—both gagged and handcuffed to a fence in a cemetery, with a serial killer and her new accomplice—

Shawn flicked his eyes to Mary, focusing on him for a few seconds while he did his best to ignore Lassie's death glare.

Mary was, Shawn realized slowly, the only one of the quartet showing no emotion. His face was blank; he held the cord stiffly, and he was on tiptoes on a ledge one higher and thinner than the one that found Lassiter's shoes hanging over the edge.

Still, there was a trace of amusement on his lips, and he stared back at Shawn with a causal intensity.

Without warning, Shawn called to him. "Mary, dude, what's Ben going to say? I thought you were one of us!" When there was no response, Shawn continued, "You know, since none of of us is an evil serial murdering son of a bitch!"

Mary inhaled through his nose, an action which led Lassiter to lean away from him slightly. "You do slay me, Shawn," Mary replied tonelessly. "Ben's a rat of the average variety, in spite of his albinism. You know he is not anthropomorphic and thus cannot manage speech anything remotely human."

Shawn sputtered, wishing he had Gus at his side to translate, "No, no I don't know because I'm not a—"

Yang cut him off with a girlish squeal, drawing his attention away from Mary. Daunted, Shawn crossed and uncrossed his arms. He had started, in his mouth, a witty retort for her finally catching up to what he had offered, but Shawn's eyes fell on the blade pressed uncomfortably to Juliet's neck. Juliet's eyes were closed, and she looked . . . so fragile. He gasped and lost his words.

"You—" Yang laughed. It was a harsh sound, like choking, at first. "You?" She paused, seeming also make a grand show of staring at him with disbelief as her face contorted. "You?" But she was smiling; her beady eyes twinkled. Shawn tried not to gasp for air, too loudly. He felt nauseated, and couldn't help wondering suddenly if he had any hair out of place. He didn't dare to check it though; he'd have to go on faith. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, that's what I said," Shawn repeated, trying hard to ignore the harsh glare coming from both detectives—constants of anger mixed with incredulous fear. From Lassiter, Shawn was picking up the vexation that was usually present when he knew Shawn was about to do something dangerous and stupid. Juliet looked extra distressed now—even a little peeved, Shawn discovered. It was hard not to look at her, or see the cuts on her cheeks, the bruises under her chin, on her forehead.

"Oh, but Shawny, you're not even on the menu."

"I think I am," Shawn said, "or, I wasn't, at first, because I'm actually a special." He held out his arms as if to advertise himself, or plead. "One night only. Get it while it's hot."

He ignored the looks from the detectives. They, literally, had no say in this; everyone else, including Gus, was too far away to stop him from doing this. He could easily picture his father's face, Adam Marks', the Chief's, all turning red, then purple. Maybe his father's face alone changed from purple to white. But they . . . must have already suspected, Shawn told himself. In fact, hadn't Marks already called him out on it, making him promise that he not make an attempt to play into Yang's hands?

But Marks didn't know Shawn well enough to understand that Shawn often broke promises. At least the ones he made to his dad.

He'd known all along what he was capable of—in spite of the mere thought turning his knees to Jell-O, plying his stomach with roiling nausea. It was just like that night when he'd gotten into the passenger seat of Yang's car—everything in his gut was telling him, "NO", loud and final, telling him to run, but . . . he was the one the serial killer wanted. If he didn't do what she asked—while she had all the control—then he would lose everything and everyone.

"My, my," Yang commented, dragging her eyes up and down his form. "Aren't you the brave one, aren't you just the little lamb?"

Shawn shrugged, fighting himself to keep his eyes her. "What do you say?"

Yang's mouth broke a smile with teeth. She enjoyed making him squirm, but took a step away from Juliet, unable to control her delight. "I accept."

Shawn ignored the nasal groans that came from the detectives. Nervously, he ran a hand over his hair. "Great," he murmured, "great." He let her get halfway to him before stating, "But I have conditions, terms, provisions, all binding." Maybe it was the wrong choice of words.

"Do you, now?" Yang asked softly.

Shawn waved in the direction of the detectives. "You have to let them go, and they have to stay alive. And they can't be hurt . . . anymore."

"I do?" Yang said. "Do I now?"

"You do."

Yang grinned. "Shawny, wouldn't this be the most perfect place to recite our wedding vows?"

Shawn backed up. He wondered, suddenly, if the SBPD had eyes on him.

"I have a perfect black dress for the occasion!" Yang continued happily. "And a black veil, and a bouquet of dead black roses!"

Behind Yang, Mary cleared his throat. Yang whirled around, then began nodding empathically. "You're right, you're right, Mary! I'm getting too ahead of myself." She swung her eyes back to Shawn. "First comes love," she singsonged.

"Please," Shawn said quietly, longing to grab something solid and hold on for dear life. "I'll give you what you want, but you . . . you need to let them go." He needed assurance that Jules and Lassie were released and not murdered, but he knew he was playing with fire just making demands of a woman this unstable. "Do it now."

Yang turned her face from his to share a look with Mary, who gave nothing away. When she turned back she gave no indication of hearing his request. "You know, Shawny, I hadn't intended for this." She had dropped her voice again, luring Shawn a few more steps in. "I was certainly sure I knew your answer to my question—who do you choose?" The question Yang whispered, her teeth bared for a few seconds.

Shawn stared back, determined to give her no satisfaction. "I gave you my answer."

"Fine, fine," Yang dismissed, making her way back to Juliet, taking her position with the knife to her throat. "But I know you're not about to come quietly, Shawn. So Mary's going to come over there and tie you up. And don't you try anything once he gets to you!"

Shawn recoiled. "Come quietly? W-where am I going?" He hadn't been expecting this, though he'd been well prepared to offer himself to her on a silver plater; apparently she had been ready for him in her own ways.

Yang clasped her hands girlishly at Juliet's neck, slicing her own fingers on the blade. "You don't really want me to ruin the surprise, do you?"

Though he remained rooted to the spot, Shawn felt the earth tilt quickly to his left. What he needed most was to process exactly what Yang was saying to him, but he couldn't get over the idea that he hadn't quite thrown the monkey wrench into her plans that he thought he had.

"What about them?" Shawn croaked.

"Once I have you, Shawn, I won't need anyone." Shawn watched Mary's reaction to this carefully, and waited, making himself not spin on his heel and dash away as Mary approached him. Lassiter was safe from getting his throat cut for the moment, but Juliet was not, so Shawn made himself stay still. Lassiter was pulling unsuccessfully at his cuffs, being as discreet as he was able. "Sorry about all this, Shawn," Mary commented without sounding apologetic. He was smiling disturbingly. Shawn considered fighting him—how easy it might be to take him down with just a slap to the forehead, but he assumed that if he was able to use Mary as a shield, try to make a fair trade, Yang would consider the deal null-in-void and kill both detectives.

"Save the crap for someone who cares," Shawn retorted. "I'm guessing that's no one."

"But there's Ben," Mary said with hurt on his face.

"Only a rat would take you back," Shawn hissed as Mary leaned in, patting him down. Mary seemed to miss the hard plastic block of Shawn's cell phone, stashed hastily behind his belt on the back of his pants like a concealed weapon.

Shawn tried not to flinch when Mary's noodlely grip pulled his wrists behind his back and secured them quickly with zip-ties. Shawn felt his heart go into his throat. Now the pair suddenly had three bound victims at their mercy—a word likely neither could understand, even if told the meaning. Mary pulled out a small roll of tape from his pocket. Shawn eyed it with worry; he'd been counting on the use of his voice to get his attention—much like always. Mary pulled a long strip, tore it, and shoved the tape over Shawn's mouth before sticking the roll back in his windbreaker's pocket. Shawn's heart beat began to accelerate; just like always, he'd gone into a situation not thinking through all the avenues—or any—of possible outcomes. He hadn't told anyone his plans, lest they try and stop him, and the only people close enough to stop bad things from happening were hostages themselves. _She'll take me forever, she won't let me go—_

As he stared at them, and ignored Yang who looked so delighted it made him want to puke through his nose, he tried to give an air that he was in complete control—as usual—and he was not at all scared, not scared, not at all. Jules' eyes were on him; he wondered if she was formulating a plan she could not carry out because she was bound. Shawn deemed it, whatever it may be, noble anyway and awarded her brownie points.

"That will be all," Yang told Mary's back. "I will take it from here."

Mary fixed Shawn with a quick stare of longing, as if he wished he was the one leaving instead. But he obeyed, retreating back to the fence. Taking the cord from his pocket, he climbed back to the ledge and pulled the cord around Lassiter's neck. In the meantime, Yang slid down to the ground and approached him, unable to keep the smile off her lips. The blade disappeared into her pocket and she instead clutched a stun gun.

Shawn waited, feeling absurd, until Yang stopped directly in front of him. "It's time to go, Shawn." She made a beckoning gesture with her weapon, but he stood still. He didn't want to go with her but he guessed it too late to renege on the deal. Not that he cared, but she seemed surprised, impressed, and happy like a kid with a new deluxe box of crayons. Or, in this case, a sociopath with a shiny new toolkit of knives and other torture devices.

"Shawn," Yang hissed irritatedly, "don't make me use the stun gun on you."

Shawn tensed. Stun guns must be her weapon of choice, best short of drugging her victims. He wanted to demand of her how many times she used it on them, but it was probably better he couldn't. It might be better if he wasn't unconscious now, if he were most aware—though not in complete control of all his senses—

But before he knew it, he was out of sight—a thrill of fear made him stumble as he took in his new surroundings with the stutter blinks of a high-speed camera.

Yang marched him along the rows of the graves as if it were a walk to the gallows. The stun gun was poised at the back of his neck, and though Shawn wanted to believe she wouldn't really hurt him (physically), it was too hard to ignore that she was, in deed, a serial killer.

_# # #_

_And he was gone, just like that._ Juliet barely dared to breathe; the three of them stayed as still as stone until Yang and Shawn were out of sight.

Juliet watched, out of the corner of her eye, as Mary jumped down from her partner's side. She had been excepting a sudden death round, not Shawn's stupid sneak attack. She tugged harder at her cuffs, relieved that sweat was still loosening one of her hands from them. It might break her wrist but she didn't care. As Lightly came close to her, she formed a plan solely on adrenaline. He pulled the tape away and patted the side of her face. "It's hard, isn't it, to watch your loved one walk away?" He pressed his lips together. "I can't really empathize, as I have little experience with loved ones."

Calmly, Juliet raised her eyebrows. "I think you know exactly what it's like," she countered, her voice soft. "Don't you?" When his face was close to hers, when his guard was down, she took her chances, lashing out with her whole leg at him, leaning into the kick and letting the weight of fence help her. She grunted with pain as the skin of her palm and the top of her hand tore open as she got free.

She had been on her tiptoes, but she took advantage of her shift of balance, swinging her dangling cuffs at the side of Mary's head. Slipping off the ledge, she went down with him, using him to break her fall. Juliet ignored his weak elbow flail to the center of her chest as they fell, as well as his sputtered curses.

When Mary was on the ground, Juliet rolled off him and scrambled to her feet. When he made to get up, Juliet stopped him. Mary fell back, landing hard. His eyes behind his glasses closed.

She took only a few seconds to check he was out cold, and then ran to her partner and pulled herself up next to him. Juliet ripped the tape off his mouth. She stretched for his cuffs but didn't come close. "O'Hara, get out of here!" Lassiter snapped hoarsely. "I told you, run away! It's an order!"

She climbed up to where Mary had stood, but she was barely taller than he was, and did not know the secret that had bound Lassiter's hands so far above. "No! I'm not leaving you!"

"O'Hara," Lassiter snarled, "she's trying to abduct Spencer. Get out there and stop her!"

Juliet hesitated, tossing her head in the direction she had watched Yang herd Shawn in. "I'll be fine, just go!" he insisted. Juliet stared at the wild look in his eyes, then nodded.

"I'll come back for you!" Juliet promised. She jumped down, tearing off. They had a good head start.

_# # #_

Shawn unwillingly sat in the backseat of Yang's stolen car, his feet tapping restlessly on the floor. Breathing the stiff air through his nose, Shawn considered that of all of the people who knew him best, and the longest, Shawn suspected that Marks, an outsider, had been the only one to see right through his best disguises.

The retired Sgt. hadn't directly voiced his reservations about Shawn's secret plans. He had the advantage to keep everyone around him at arm's length if he so chose—because, truly, Lassiter was the only one he knew well. Still, Marks had done his best to impart his wisdom—and warning—upon Shawn by reminding Shawn that many people, including the majority of an entire Santa Barbara Police Department, cared about his well-being. It was nice, Shawn reflected, to almost be talked out of it, because Yang absolutely scared the bejesus out of him.

He wriggled uselessly in the zip-ties holding his wrists behind him; these things were meant to hold. He just wished . . . wished that she hadn't taped his mouth shut. He was antsy enough as it was; talking out loud, even if not to her but just to himself, had always been his comfort. He needed to hear himself work a problem out aloud, because occasionally, even his mind got it wrong.

Yang angled the rearview mirror so she had a perfect view of her captive audience. "I've been waiting for this day," she said to the mirror, her dark eyes leering at him. Her voice held a smoky passion that made the hairs on the back of Shawn's neck stand up. He felt like he might suffocate, and wanted desperately to escape from the car. He tossed his head from right to left, wondering which door would be best to smash a shoulder in to, to force his bound hands onto the handle and pull as hard as he could while throwing himself out. The car was not yet moving because Yang was taking her time staring.

Shawn forced himself to calm down, despite his racing heart. He knew he couldn't make a break for it just yet; Yang's accomplice still held some high cards when it came to Jules' and Lassie's fates. When he had been led off by Yang, they were both still bound. Shawn made himself sit still.

Fleetingly, he wished . . . he wished that Marks had been able to get through to him. Marks had come the closest, squeezing his shoulder in a reassuring way—a small gesture which had urged Shawn (even as far as he was in the throes of his Plan B decision) to reconsider.

Had Gus, Henry, or Vick known what he was planning. . . . Shawn closed his eyes tightly.

"Don't do that," Yang hissed from up front. "I need to see you."

Shawn gulped but did as she asked. He could see bottomless nothingness in her eyes, canyons and ravines of blackness; a bout of shivers edged way up his spine. It looked like . . . she wanted him to fall into her eyes, fall forever. The car lurched forward. Shawn leaned back against the seat, scared, a roar in his ears. They were leaving the rows of headstones behind, one, two, three, four, five, six . . . the grave markers blurred through Shawn's veil of fear: _this was really happening_.

"I knew it," Yang said, a smile in her voice. "I knew you wanted to be with me, Shawn. I've always known, since the very first moment I locked eyes with your picture, you know the picture I'm talking about." She gave him a few beats to think back, to recall the photograph on display in the Santa Barbara Museum next to the dinosaur he and Gus had found. Thinking of the photograph made Shawn wonder just how long Yang had been in town following her thirteen year absence from murder. Just how long she had been planning and crafting a "game" for him,—why had she waited?—and just how long she been watching him while he went about his life, clueless? "I knew we were meant to be." She cackled. "And you're supposed to be the psychic one."

This was always coming back to haunt him; usually, it rolled off his back as if it had never been said. He knew that he was not psychic. A few others knew, a few more were skeptical and the rest _believed_ he was just more than an ordinary human being. Shawn didn't know which one Yang was—or what she wanted him to be for her. He wondered where she was going to take him. He wished . . . he wished he could try to talk her out of it.

It wasn't going to work; Yang had had her heart set on him, but still. Did she no longer want an audience now that it was just the two of them?

# # #

She wanted to keep her promises, strive always for the better. And if she said she was going to kill, she felt she should follow through.

But . . . Violet's breath caught in her throat as she looked into the mirror and saw Shawn Spencer's eyes locked on hers. His gaze was half of panic and half of defiance, a truly delicious combination, she thought. But . . . Shawn's presence made it . . . almost a question of conscience . . . when it came to killing, if only of killing those close to him, or those strangers whose deaths would weigh too heavily upon him.

Though, she surmised, he felt little or nothing for the corpses he came upon at crime scenes—because they were already dead and he'd had no part in it.

A conscience. The thought made her chuckle, aloud. She thought she saw her passenger tremble, but he was still looking at her. Was that why she'd spared her blade, her poison, her explosives when they'd last met? Or was it because Shawn was, in her mind's eye, truly the Yin she'd searched for all over this country, since she was just a girl?

# # #

Juliet had no plan, but she kept her eyes peeled on both sides for weapons, running solely on adrenaline. Yang had marched Shawn well out of her line of vision, but she kept going in the direction she'd seen them step into just before hitting her blind spot.

Unnoticed by gatekeepers—perhaps a twist of fate just for her sake—the wooden handle of a baseball bat caught her eye, resting across a grave. Nothing but vegetation was allowed, not even photographs, but Yang must have slipped in before the groundskeepers could retrieve this, and put it in the trash. Juliet snatched the bat, praising its weight as she silently thanked the grieving relatives of the promising minor leaguer gone away much too soon. It was something, something she could wrap her hands around.

She followed what she prayed was the right way, her training taking over her as her fear beat steadily through her blood.

A car was moving some ways ahead of her; she upped her speed, intuiting just who was inside. Since it was traveling less than ten mph, she caught up fast, cutting it off from one of its blind spots. Without thinking at all, Juliet leapt in front of it, throwing her weight into swinging the bat at the car's grill and headlight. The impact awakened her—the headlight shattered with her strength. Juliet tossed a look, pale with disbelief, at the windshield. As if was a beast tamed, the car stopped with a hard squeal of braking. Juliet's gaze strayed from Yang to Shawn, who'd pressed his face between the opening of the two front seats, careful to keep from getting too close to Yang. He looked frozen, as if he'd died under ice.

Jumping back, away from the front of the car, Juliet swung the bat again as Yang took her foot off the brake. She wasn't quick enough to keep from getting hit; the smashed headlight tapped her knees, but Juliet ignored the clip. Her latest swing bent the side mirror but also knocked her off balance. Juliet felt nothing as she landed sideways on the ground, smelling gasoline as the tires rolled across a few strands of loose hair. Pulling back as quickly as she dared, Juliet jumped to her feet, released finally of her shoes. A single thought roared through her head. _Yang is leaving with Shawn. _

Her breath heavy, Juliet quickened her pace to keep up, the bat bouncing on her shoulder as she held it ready to swing again. The headstones passed her in a blur, as did the trees, their arm-like branches bent overhead. She wasn't aware of what was happening inside the car, but she guessed Shawn was trying to buy her time. "Please," Juliet gasped, as if asking permission of all the dead around her for this one most important favor.

Neck in neck with the beast suddenly, her stockinged feet grazing stray rocks, Juliet swung the bat one more time, around her to the left. The driver's side window exploded, shards of glass falling back on to Juliet's arms. With a squeak, she tried to shield her face, cursing herself as the car continued to move, away from her.

Away from her; the car curved sharply off the driving path into a varied group of larger headstones, each eight feet or more tall, those of solid granite or marble. The car stopped with a metallic crunch, its wheels spinning over smaller headstones whose only defense had been impediment.

Juliet heard her heart make a sickening lurch, as if she'd shifted gears too quickly without first reading the manual on how to. Her cheek stung as she been slapped, and as she reached up to touch it, she cut her hand. Juliet sliced two fingers yanking the jagged piece of window from her cheek, dropping it into the grass as she ran towards the car.

"SHAWN!" Juliet called out, wiping her bloody cheek with the back of her hand. She felt sick, numb all over. He wouldn't be able to answer her properly because of the gag, but she hoped for anything which proved he wasn't unconscious or dead.

# # #

Shawn couldn't be sure what he was seeing wasn't actually a hallucination. It made little sense for it to be real, but the fact that a million sarcastic jokes started to bubble beneath the tape gave him hope.

He could still see Yang's eyes in the rearview; they contorted darkly as it all unfolded. But she was no longer watching him; she had put in a secret faith that he would be waiting for her when she was all done with whatever it was she was about to do to thwart Juliet's attacks.

There was little he could really do, but Shawn took comfort that Yang hadn't though to buckle him down. He scooted to edge of the backseat, freezing only a few seconds to understand that that was really Juliet through the looking glass. Shawn threw himself in Yang's direction, using his bound hands and knees to get him closer to her. He ignored that, in some other circumstance, this was probably among Yang's top ten Shawn Spencer fantasies.

Yang whipped her body towards him as if trying to shrug him off, as if it were just a hand and not his entire torso that he'd laid on her shoulder. Growling, Yang let go of the wheel and shoved him. "This is not the way, Shawny!" she yelled fiercely. Shawn was still bent over the front seat console, stuck. Yang grabbed one of his fingers and twisted it. Shawn howled, trying to get himself free and to the backseat. He nudged his weight against her, grunting with pain as she kept hold of him.

To his left, he jumped at a sudden noise as loud as bumper cars smashing into one another. Yang cried out harshly, and Shawn was inexplicably able to slip out of her grasp, falling through the opening to the back seat, his face jarring as he landed awkwardly between the back of the passenger seat and the floor. _Why did she let me go?_ he thought, confused, breathing heavily through his nose. He was still shaking like that when he felt the car, though moving at a pace less than ten mph, run over hard ground and slam into something big and solid. He cried out, his voice sounding like a muffled sob to his own ears. He couldn't get control of his thoughts to work through what might have just happened, but he had a sudden ridiculous urge to run his hands through his hair.

Then, her voice, a little ways off, causing his ears to ring. "SHAWN! SHAWN! Answer me!"

Juliet.

Shawn wiggled, trying to dislodge himself from this trap of space. He couldn't hear anything within the car but his own labored breathing; without, Juliet's voice was in tune with the still running engine, with something rumbling in the undercarriage. "Shawn!" she yelled again, closer.

Shawn yelled into the tape as loudly as he could. He hated the sounds were further muffled by his position, his nose almost touching the floor. "Juliet!" he called out. "Here!"

# # #

Juliet reached the car, choosing the passenger side to edge up to first. She grabbed the back door handle, pulling it as hard as she could. _Locked,_ she said silently, and peered into the car. The windows were tinted, but it looked like a poor, quick attempt; she could make out a blob of shape in the backseat. Muffled sounds responded when she called out. Her heart hiking into her throat, Juliet worked her way around to the driver's side, the bat tucked under her arm.

The car was still running; when Juliet saw the front of the car, she was reminded instantly of accident which had begun this whole ordeal. Juliet jerked her head to the broken window, to Yang, her head slumped over the wheel. She was facing away from Juliet; Juliet had been unable to tell from the other side of the car if Yang was just faking.

Juliet got the bat ready, and eased towards the broken window. She pushed the bat in first, keeping it and the car in between herself and Yang, then slid her hand inside the door, feeling for the lock release. Her fingers found quite a bit of glass but she kept searching through her pain, holding her breath. She was relieved that could hear Shawn's muffled voice coming from the backseat, but she didn't dare talk to him. As soon as she got her fingers on the switch and heard it click, Juliet pulled her hands and the bat away from the front of the car and grabbed the door handle behind the driver's seat. She could taste the relief as it opened.

"Shawn!" Juliet cried, seeing how he was stuck. He wriggled, frustratedly. He had no idea how much time they had because his heart was beating too loudly in his ears to process much.

Juliet left the door open and ran around to the other side, pulling that door open too; she had contemplated and discarded trying to pull Shawn out by the feet, opting instead to get him out by the shoulders. Juliet pressed her forearms under Shawn's chest, silently praying he wasn't injured, and managed to get Shawn onto the seat. Shawn stared at up at Juliet's upside down face, incredulous at the turn of events. Juliet grabbed Shawn under the armpits and eased him down to the ground.

"Can you walk?" she asked, her voice sounding distorted. "Can you stand? Are you hurt?" Without waiting for a suitable answer, Juliet started moving Shawn's limbs, stopping only when she realized there was a cord around his knees. She threw her fingers on it, noticing for the first time she was shaking, but she found the knot and dug in.

Shawn watched her, almost unable to wrap his head around all that was happening. He wanted to tell her that he was ready to get up as long as she promised not to let him go, but he was still gagged. Actually, he wanted to tell her they should run. Up close, he saw all the bruises and burns and cuts he'd seen in the Polaroids, and new cuts and bruises as well, like the steady trickle coming from her cheek and her fingers. Just as he realized she was bleeding, Juliet got the knot loose, and hoisted him into a sitting position. She cursed when she saw the zip-ties around his wrists.

"Can you stand?" she asked again breathlessly. Dazed, Shawn nodded. "Okay." Juliet got to her knees on the ground as if she might start praying, but then she slid her hands under Shawn's armpits again and stood up, pulling Shawn with her. He tottered a bit but she kept hold, and when they were both upright, Juliet reached up to the tape on Shawn's mouth and ripped it off.

Shawn squeaked, licking his lips.

"Are you hurt?" Juliet asked again, looking around then urging him to start walking.

Shawn had to think about it. "I don't think so," he said after a moment. His head was still spinning. Juliet slid a hand down Shawn's back, resting her fingers on his bound wrists. "Where are we going?" he asked stupidly.

"Away from here," Juliet answered distractedly. "I had a piece of glass, I dropped it." She kept her eyes peeled for a little flash of red somewhere in the grass.

"What?" Shawn asked.

"Glass. For your hands. I don't have anything sharp." For a moment, Juliet caught sight of her own broken fingernails, and from them, the stems of her fingers, the skin of her palms chapped. Had it been days since she'd seen her own hands?

"Jules, wait," Shawn said, halting. He cast a glance over his shoulder; they had already walked twenty or thirty feet from the car. "Is she dead?"

Juliet stopped too, dread encircling her throat. "I—I don't know," she admitted, her eyes suddenly an electric blue. In her haste to get Shawn out of the car, she'd ignored her training as a cop. She hadn't checked for a pulse, for breathing. They had just spent what seemed like an eternity walking away; it couldn't have been more than three minutes. Or maybe it was three minutes from when she finally removed Shawn from the car till now.

Shawn couldn't see anything but the car's side at this angle. "She was slumped over the wheel," he heard Juliet say. She tugged on him. "Don't you want to go? You're still at a disadvantage." She swore under her breath. "And I dropped the bat."

Shawn bit his lip. "That was real, then?" His memory flashed over the scene, up until his vision was limited to a dark view of the floor. He stopped again. "My psychic vision is clogged up, Jules," he lied. "I can't get a fix on if she's the way we left her."

He could understand Juliet's hesitation, but he wanted to know if this whole thing was really over. Last time around, Yang surrendered while sitting in her car, keeping her place even as Shawn emerged with the bomb's remote switch. But would she do it a second time? Wait patiently, seemingly content enough at getting one last glance of Shawn? He took a step back, trying to ignore Juliet's wild look. "Shawn!" Juliet hissed. She caught up to him and tried to pull him back.

"Fine," she sighed, when his body language insisted. "Let's . . . do this together."

They gave the car a wide berth, staying far enough so they could break into a run if needed. All Shawn wanted was a single look; it didn't have to be up close; he'd been much too close to her too many times already. Juliet wrapped her arm protectively around Shawn's lower back. Shawn took in the scene before them, experiencing the deja vu sensations of when Chief Vick had made him go to the scene of the detectives' abduction. He listened hard for breathing, for any signs of human life over the engine's purr, the groaning of the undercarriage. His eyes swept the broken glass of the driver's side window, and realized with a jump of fear that this was the noise of the great event which had allowed him to get out of Yang's grasp. He stole a tight glance at Jules, whose complexion was white.

Juliet's eyes watered; she couldn't swallow. It was less what she wasn't seeing here, but what she couldn't see _there_. It was just occurring to her what she had left, and how vulnerable she'd left him when she'd run away. "Carlton." It was just a breath because she couldn't feel the words on her tongue.

Shawn stared into the car, openmouthed. _How . . . could . . . it . . . empty?_ "Where—" he choked out, "how?" He turned quickly, searching the rows of headstones, the trees around them. Juliet was doing the same in the other direction.

"Come on!" she croaked, taking off in a run.

"Jules!" Shawn called after her. "Wait up!"

Reluctantly, Juliet slowed her pace as she remembered Shawn was still bound. "Hurry, Shawn, please! Carlton—"

Shawn's memory pulled up Lassiter, with Juliet, both still handcuffed to the fence. He remembered Mary staring after them as Yang marched him off, he remembered Mary shifting his gaze towards the detectives for an instant, Mary taking a single step towards Juliet. It was the first time he wondered how Juliet had gotten free. And for the first time he noticed the silver bracelet still around her wrist, the other empty, dangling free.

# # #

Lassiter yanked at the cuffs, cursing his inability to slip his larger hands from the tight silver circles. He was grateful that O'Hara had taken the tape off his mouth.

On the ground, Mary groaned. Lassiter grimaced, not because he feared the smaller man, but he knew that Yang had a great influence on the profiler. However plans may have changed, Lightly would still carry out Yang's orders.

Lassiter watched, his jaw tight, as Lightly got up on his elbows, then flipped himself onto his back. Lassiter saw the bloody nose O'Hara had given him when she elbowed him in the face; Lightly's nose and mouth were covered. He seemed to only notice Lassiter then, and frowned when he saw the tape had been removed.

Mary grunted, struggling to his knees. Detective O'Hara had gotten a good square kick to his pelvis before kneeing his groin. She'd been hoping, Mary assumed, for him go blind with pain, but she hadn't considered how many times he'd been kicked between the legs as a child. Not that he was numb to it, but he could take it, no matter how hard it was—and still get up in half the time. Which was a terrible scenario to leave her still bound partner in. Mary's mouth twitched.

"Such a turn of events, Detective," he said quietly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Mary, hands in the dirt, reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the stun gun and pulled it free of the cloth. He pulled himself upright, stumbling on his feet. Lassiter pressed himself against the fence as if it might keep his captor and the stun gun in his hand from getting too close.

"Don't try it, Lightly," Lassiter hissed, his voice like gravel. He pulled again and again at the cuffs, as if there was a weak link.

"This won't hurt a bit," Mary rasped, taking a second to wipe another smear of blood away from his nose with his sleeve as he approached.

"Don't do it, Lightly," Lassiter urged. "Think about it. It's over."

"No, Detective. Her game isn't over with," Mary said quietly. "What if she doesn't get the ending she deserves?"

Lassiter swallowed, pulling back. There wasn't anywhere to go.

Mary enjoyed the dark look which crossed over Detective Lassiter's eyes; the detective knew he was no match for 10,000 volts. Mary charged up the stun gun.

Lassiter, possibly inspired by O'Hara, kicked out when Lightly was close enough, catching Lightly's upper thigh. Lightly spun, and Lassiter aimed a kick at his arm, but he missed. Lightly lunged for him instead. Lassiter didn't even have enough time to open his mouth, let alone scream.

# # #

Mary realized, dumbfounded, that he hadn't, until this point, seen Yang run.

But that was beside the point, since she had come upon him with the detective half slumped over his shoulder, the handcuffs empty and dangling above them, partially attached to the fence. The detective hissed, not quite unconscious but in too much physical pain to move his limbs.

Mary watched Yang sprint up as he tried to support Lassiter's weight. He'd acted off emotion, the sneak attack, without consulting her first. They'd had no Plan B, at least none that he'd been aware of—for all intents and purposes, he'd been expecting bloodshed and not self-sacrifice.

Still, he knew that all Yang really wanted was Shawn Spencer. She became kind of soft around him, giving in drastically, letting her victims live as if doing otherwise would upset him too much. All of it left Mary breathless, sputtering with frustration. She was not the killer he thought he knew so well.

Yang panted, her eyes cold as stone. There was an open cut on her forehead, with fresh blood slipping down her face. Mary had no way of knowing if she was furious with him—or if her anger was directed solely at whatever had caused her to return to the scene of the crime. Mary pursed his lips. It was unlikely she would have left Spencer alone for any reason. He grunted, and let more of the detective's weight fall against him as he pulled Lassiter down from the stone ledge he'd been perched upon as a hostage. Mary guessed that Lassiter was little aware of what was happening to him, but wondered nonetheless if he were suffering with a different kind of worry—the fate of his partner and Spencer unknown.

Mary pulled his eyes from Yang. She had not said a word, and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to ask what happened—if it was a dangerous thing to ponder that question. He risked one word, the one her stimulus responded to the most positively, even more to this than the singular word "death." "Shawn?" he breathed, flicking his eyes in her direction, pretending that Lassiter's dead weight wasn't breaking his back as he fought to remain upright. Unwittingly, he felt by putting the detective on the ground they'd have to leave him and it would all be over.

Mary didn't want it to be over yet. In spite of her vacant idiosyncrasies, he still found the continued study of Yang fascinating—and this was up close and personal.

Yang took her time, and finally shook her head, as if she couldn't manage words—out of anger or shock. She took her time too, looking over the scene before her. Around them it was still _dead_ quiet, but Mary guessed that it wouldn't be too long before the sirens started.

"We have to get to the car," she muttered. "The other car." Mary craned his neck so he could hear her better and ignored the strain of the muscles in his neck and his body's other protests. "We have to go the other way."

"The other car?" Mary repeated, wanting to get a move on but was determined to be patient with her. "The other way?"

Yang shot him an annoyed look. "Not the way I went." She gave no explanation for the car.

Mary looked to the left, and understood. To the left were a line of tall trees which would hide them, but they would run close to the wall of the mausoleum. Yang had gone right, parading Shawn out in the open along rows of graves. She had wanted him to see—and warn anyone who may be looking on—that she was serious as death.

He risked asking, "They won't be there?"

"No," Yang snapped. "They won't be there."

Though she had not intended this, and was truly chilled on the inside at the turn of events, Violet followed Lightly as he half-carried, half-dragged their remaining pawn. Lassiter's chin bumped against Mary's shoulder as he walked, and Yang took to staring at his closed eyes, his pale, pale skin. There was still blood in his hair.

_You'll do,_ she thought, _you'll do._ Her insides filled with flame.

He would serve excellently as the absolute perfect way to exact her revenge against Juliet O'Hara.


	13. Chapter 12: Your Words Are Weapons

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own reference the video games _Space Invaders, Berzerk, Defender_ or _Bega's Battle_.

Author's Note: Millions of thanks to my readers and reviewers! You're all very awesome! :) Thank you for your feedback, encouragement and patience! Hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

Again, there are references in this chapter to my previous story, "**Ask For Another Day**", but reading that story is not required to understand the references made.

Reviews, constructive criticism, and feedback are welcomed and appreciated! Thanks and enjoy!

#########################################################################################################################

**Chapter Twelve: Your Words Are Weapons Of The Mind**

##############################################################################################################################

# # #

How much time had passed? Juliet hadn't counted time properly in days, hadn't seen the sun or the moon to judge even the time of day. Now she was standing on the spot where light had been such a short time ago. Or was it a long time ago? Was it the fault of distance, or human fault alone, to race back here, out of breath, and find this space deserted?

What kind of fate had given her sight to intuit the correct path to chase Yang down, to find Juliet to act bravely—or stupidly—to rescue a civilian from a killer's grasp, yet had robbed her cruelly at the crucial moment to get back to another who also needed her?

Juliet felt a crushing weight, those of hours or days, the injuries she bore, the blood, dried and fresh, that she wore, the stale pain, wrapping itself around her neck.

They didn't look at each other; Shawn was just as dumbfounded of what he was _not_ seeing here as was Juliet. Of all the things that had happened today, this felt like it made the least sense. It was, he thought, supposed to be _over_. He ignored though, in the "over scenario", that it was over because Yang had taken him away instead.

"Two slow," Shawn hissed, looking over the empty place. His face felt numb. "Was that . . . what she meant? Twice, I would miss—" Miss what? A few crucial details that could have prevented him from losing the game to Yang again?

With a lump in her throat making it had to take in or expel anything but the most shallow of breaths, Juliet stared at the scene, standing in the groove where Shawn when he approached on foot. When she had been chained to the fence herself, it had been nearly impossible to imagine the horror what he had been looking at, only because she had had her own horror show with which to deal. She couldn't, not even for a few seconds, convince herself that Yang wouldn't slit her throat on a whim. And from her position she hadn't even been able to crane her neck to see her partner. . . .

Her partner was _gone_. Just the way Yang had been gone from behind the wheel. And Lightly . . . he'd been right over there, lying dazed or unconscious on the ground. Juliet swallowed the lump with difficultly. She hadn't checked Lightly over, made certain he was out cold. She hadn't checked him for weapons.

Shawn was still muttering but Juliet wasn't hearing his words. She had thought . . . this was an end of a different kind. The end of the ordeal; the three of them were going to walk away, today.

Still bound, Shawn scanned the area again, Yang's riddles cutting into him. He replayed at all of them, one after the other as he looked for that anything he might have missed. What the hell was she playing at? What good was Lassiter to her now without Juliet? Last time around, Yang had abandoned claim to the waitress she'd taken when he and Gus and the SBPD figured out the clues to her location. Then Yang had gone after a new target, his mother.

Shawn frowned, not understanding Yang's plan. Lassiter could only be dead weight to her now; why not leave him and go after a new target? Though he didn't want to entertain even false thoughts of Gus or his father becoming Yang's new target, Shawn forced himself through it. A new scary thought occurred to him; maybe he didn't know Yang as well as he thought, maybe she wasn't a one-trick pony.

Juliet hadn't heard Lassiter yell, though she combed her memory frantically for sounds she might have missed. Maybe there wasn't time for him to yell. Juliet looked up at the fence they'd been chained too, gasping when her eyes caught the abandoned cuffs. Her mind worked fast, creating a scenario she couldn't quite believe in.

Maybe . . . Lassiter had gone in pursuit of Lightly, or of Yang, and he was still giving chase, in spite of having no gun, no forms of communication or idea, in spite of being weakened from the various injuries he'd sustained since being first attacked, in spite of being bound and given nothing of substance, given only a few drops of water . . .

But now he was unbound . . . unbound, and he couldn't have done it himself.

Juliet pulled her arms against her own body as if in an attempt to hold her organs within. Something was threatening to spill from her when she knew, distantly, that she couldn't let it.

But she had wanted it for days, wanted it more so than freedom and safety, she wanted to release the taloned creature trapped behind her ribs. As a hopelessness she hadn't imagined possible cut into her sharp enough to maim but not to kill, Juliet's jaw opened and her tongue helped to welcome the scream her throat had kept within since the first ambush had left them both helpless.

Her cry was for Lassiter as much as for herself, ringing out across the stones marking thousands of resting places. If it were any other day but this one, she could have simply been just another mourner, not able to understand a death, not able to let go.

Shawn, jarred by Juliet's cry, felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. What did the two of them think they were doing, standing here agape? Ruefully, Shawn wondered if Yang could see them now, if she were laughing over their confusion and shock. He gritted his teeth.

"Jules, my phone," Shawn called to her, reaching for it with his still bound hands. He pushed it out of his belt and heard it land with a muted thud on the darkened grass.

Juliet scrambled, pressing the back of her hand to her lips. She got the phone in her hands and dialed, hoping the first number would suffice. Gus's voice blared at her angrily, thinking she was someone else. "Gus, Gus, he's right here!" Juliet heard his surprise as she pushed the phone towards Shawn's ear. "He wants to know where you are."

Before Shawn could speak more the necessary words, he heard Vick's tight voice. "Put Detective O'Hara on, Mr. Spencer!"

Shawn nodded to her. "Chief wants to talk to you."

# # #

He awoke briefly to darkness, cramped, muffled, stuffy and dank. _Trunk,_ he mused distantly as the surface he lay upon rocked beneath him. _Trunk_ was less mind-blowing than _coffin_, he decided, pressing his lips together hard enough to feel them go white. His body was tied up in knots under the skin; his head ached too much to have the drive to stay awake. Unsettling hallucinations woke him briefly again a few minutes later. He smelled exhaust and diesel; something was much worse and wrong beyond these little factors, but he could only grasp at the reason why. Nevertheless, Carlton closed his eyes against the darkness, drifting back to a much uneasier sleep.

# # #

About her, what it was exactly, Mary didn't have the right words. He was of highly brilliant, reasoning mind; before all this business of switching sides, he had earned a reputation of being accredited, counted on to be shrewd in his analyzations, though he'd considered himself a weak personality. Easily vulnerable, waiting for the perfect cult, the one source to draw him in, take him over. Completely. He had nothing to anchor him to a life outside of obsessive profiling when he began the quest thirteen years and six months ago to find her.

She was . . . exciting. Terrifying. She was very good at what she did, and seemed to enjoy it to the fullest. Maybe it was a flicker of conscience, but Yang still scared the daylights out of him. In the dimly lit evening, Mary felt himself smiling. All serial murderers—those with specific patterns—were scary and bordering on, or were completely, soulless, inhuman, thriving on control of lesser beings—beings like himself. But most of them were male, and most of them weren't as smart as Yang—or shrewd. Mary liked to have a few characteristics in common with her, even if this included killing without remorse.

In spite of her nature and behavior, he did her bidding willingly, and didn't mind if he was, somehow, under her control. There were worse things. Behind the wheel of their latest stolen vehicle, his face alone was exposed to the world, while she sat in back, slumped down her the windows. He'd recommended it.

He'd also suggested a backup plan, and that's how they'd come to have a spare vehicle just outside the back gates, behind the area of the cemetery under construction. Certainly, dragging Lassiter through and around the tall mounds of soft, uprooted dirt with Yang hobbling and panting along at his heels was an experience he could have done without. Mary lost track of how many times he had stumbled and almost sent the three of them down into the probably occupied mass graves on a wild avalanche of earth.

They still had another place to go where they could slip in unseen, unknown, though they were both fugitives. But Mary considered Chief Vick's position; perhaps she'd thought alerting the public meant alarming them too much, which could hinder the investigation and search. Search and rescue. Half-failed rescue. Mary could have smiled bitterly at their missed opportunity; the pair of killers—he liked the sound of it—they were had almost been rid of both detectives, but he frowned instead. It was too much of a tease: They had almost been rid of both detectives.

Seething, he turned his thoughts elsewhere. He had to wonder who—if anyone—would survive this game. Yang had specific plans; this time, not leaving much to chance, much based on what Shawn Spencer could or couldn't do. Mary pursed his lips. The part of the game he liked least involved Shawn Spencer—which should have told him he should not be playing. These were Shawn's coworkers—friends—just as it had been his mother six months before. Yang wanted to make it personal for Shawn. Never before had she been so personal with her targets—nor the victims she chose for the targets to save—but Shawn had proven to be special. For the first time in thirteen years, the victims taken remained alive, because, on her terms, Shawn had been her best player. The champ.

Still, Mary kept his hopes. He knew more about Yang than Shawn Spencer could ever care to know. All he had to do now was give Yang some time. He imagined her trying on her given first name for him, modeling her figure in a mirror, winking at him before spinning to lock her arms around his throat, pull him into what would be for her a gentle embrace. He couldn't wait—no. Mary could wait. He had been at this thirteen and a half years, after all.

# # #

In spite of the familiar buzz of organized police activity—the strange collision of noise and final resting places, Chief Vick remained silent, frozen to the spot for just a few precious seconds, her eyes sweeping the scene. It seemed impossible at first, this—next—disappearing act; how could three people—two of very short stature, in comparison to her Head Detective—just vanish into thin air?

Karen swallowed hard. Just as before, she tasted anger and violence and fear, its bitter cocktail burning all the way down. Liquid-dangerous, sharp as tears.

Twilight set upon them, but they were granted at least another hour of muted light, due to the summer season. The SBPD were to use this time wisely, or she would have their badges.

She didn't have the time right now to properly reprimand Shawn Spencer, who immediately owned up to working alone—and by display of the disappointed, sickly, and sad faces of Henry's, Gus', and Marks', respectively, she could believe it was true. Nor did she have the time—nor was it the place—to experience the relief of retrieving one of her detectives and the feckless psychic, the latter completely unharmed.

Juliet, charged up, had immediately refused a trip to the hospital. Her knees jittered as she sat on the edge of the ambulance, but not out of fear. She'd been restless, unfocused almost on the scene before her, and ordered the EMTs to hurry because she had a job to do. She didn't want them shining light in her eyes or asking her questions about the burns on the back of her neck.

"You don't get it," she'd shot back, exasperated, after one EMT asked for patience. "I need to get back to work." Her eyes had filled with tears then but Juliet refused to break. Lassiter needed her to stay strong; if she was in little pieces, a mess, she wasn't going to be able to help him. She swallowed her doubts, one quick shot.

Shawn, by far, was in much worse shape, emotionally. He was possibly, secretly, on level with Vick—though she'd never tell. He too was scanning the entire area as if there was something he could have missed—a trapdoor, a hidden path, any sort of easy camouflage—right under his nose. He was, however, bound and sitting in the backseat of Yang's car when Lightly might have been making his move.

"Chief, this is what we've got to do," Juliet began, breathing hard when she saw Vick start to protest. "Please, Chief, don't order me not to do it. I don't want to go home." She dropped her voice. "I already followed one order by a superior officer—and look where we are now." The two women stared at each other.

"Detective," Vick interceded firmly, "it's not your fault."

Juliet shook her head as if she didn't quite believe it. "Regardless, I've _got_ to find him." Then she launched into what they should be doing, setting up perimeters, searching the entire cemetery, searching the surrounding areas—all actions Vick had already taken directly after their distress call.

"Detective—" Vick tried again, intent on reminding O'Hara of her own escape from Yang a short time ago with hope that O'Hara would want to take a few steps back, emotionally. It would be too harsh—and likely impossible—to pull her away from the case, calling it a conflict of interest, but Vick wanted everyone on point and focused, not about to crack under pressure. And since O'Hara had just been under considerable pressure, being a hostage herself, Vick knew her doubts were warranted. However, O'Hara cut her off before she could voice any of it.

"I said I would come back, Chief!" Juliet snapped, her eyes pinched. "And when I came back—"

She started talking about the empty handcuffs, started talking about how she knew Lassiter was no good at waiting but how he trusted her, talking faster to the point of nearly babbling as she ran through a list of Lassiter's good qualities and noted, just as quickly, how some of those qualities weren't as seen as positives to others, but that she appreciated them for what they were, and for him for what he was. "What he is," Juliet amended quickly, pausing to draw in breath for another round of speech.

Vick hopped her chance to get through to Juliet, seizing her firmly by the shoulder. "Detective, you will be the biggest help if you let the paramedics give you the once over—and it's an order," Vick added, raising her eyebrows sternly. "I want to know you're in top shape to continue this investigation—because I want to reissue you your firearm as soon as possible."

Juliet nodded, pressing her lips together. The activity around her became a dull rushing of sound, as if she were on subway car traveling fast under a large body of water. Eventually, after catching flickers of them, she picked out two people she didn't immediately know at first sight. But after giving them each a good once-over, she formed lists of vague details about them, and wondered why they were here—and how long they had been involved in this investigation.

The thin red-haired woman she recognized as Detective Alexander; from the way the Chief was addressing her, it looked like she might have been assigned as lead detective. Juliet had only met Detective Alexander once or twice before; they had never worked together. She remembered her as a stiff person with tight skin and rare smiles. Actually, her manner reminded Juliet a lot of the way Lassiter had behaved towards her when they had been first assigned as partners; fortunately for her, Lassiter had eventually loosened up, somewhat.

Frowning, Juliet looked away. She was still listening to the EMTs with half an ear, answering with mostly the yes or the no required of her, when required. Her eyes found the other person, a man, standing with Henry Spencer. At first it was difficult to tell who was comforting whom, but as she watched, Juliet remembered the man, remembered the surprise in his eyes when she'd pulled her gun on him, remembered the amused endearment in how he addressed her partner. How he'd feigned hurt at being forgotten, but had resolved to cut Lassiter slack considering he was lying in a hospital bed after nearly drowning.

"Adam Marks is here?" she whispered, drawing the attention of the two EMTs. Realizing what she'd said, Juliet shook her head for them. "Nothing, nothing."

"Shawn, how could you?" Gus asked quietly, standing at Shawn's side, leaning in. He seemed afraid that Shawn might try to run away.

Shawn glanced briefly at Gus before continuing his scanning. His hands, now unbound, were pressed to his temples. Shawn couldn't get out of his head that all the clues or signs were here and he'd just missed something vital. He hadn't even chosen one of the detectives outright and still he'd fumbled. "I had to, Gus," he answered low enough for only the two of them to hear.

"You should have let me come here with you."

Shawn discreetly shook his head no. "You would have tried to stop me. That's why I didn't tell you—you might have convinced me." His voice quivered and he paused for a moment.

"So you were just going to go with her?" Gus sounded disgusted, and a bit scared.

Shawn's breath caught. He was suddenly trapped in Yang's backseat, forced to keep his eyes level with the rearview mirror. Her eyes were locked on that mirror, and she'd looked happy. Victorious. Gus' words struck him hard, because up until this moment he hadn't really considered what was going to happen once the car started moving, once they had really driven away. He shuddered.

"I just thought . . . I thought . . . they'd be safe. If I just gave her what she wanted—"

"Shawn!" Gus hissed, perturbed. "How do you know what she really wants? You might think she wants you—but what do you think she wants from you?"

Shawn kept quiet. He was thinking again about how he'd gone to the cemetery to face Yang and get her, somehow, to release the captive detectives, how he'd considered that Yang might want his death as her ultimate prize but considered also that Yang was just infatuated with him and just wanted some sick version of a romance—maybe with a suicide pact—and how Juliet had ended up saving _his_ life by risking her own. It was a strange turn of events he never would have imagined.

"Are you listening to me?" Gus demanded, shaking Shawn out of his thoughts. "She enlisted Mary Lightly's help to escape from prison—and then she went after SBPD detectives—and what did she do all of that for?" He raised his eyebrows for emphasis as Shawn shrugged dumbly. "To hurt you, Shawn! To make you suffer! To make you squirm!"

"How do you know that for sure?"

Gus sighed loudly. "How do you not?" He balled his fists. "We have no idea who she is—who she really is—and we have a skewed view of her because of Lightly."

"I don't think so, I mean, I think we can still go on what he had said—"

Gus gave Shawn a sideways look. "Really? You still want to trust Mary even though he's in on it?"

Shawn swallowed. "Well, no, not exactly, but maybe he's . . . under her spell or something."

"Listen to me, Shawn," Gus said slowly. "He killed those prison guards, the ones who had been driving Yang's transport. And he plotted with Yang to do it. And then he helped her ambush and kidnap Juliet and Lassiter. You can't possibly think that he's a victim."

Shawn still looked skeptical, but he also looked sick, as if he'd been holding a secret hope that they'd had an "ally" on the inside, one ready to turn the tables on Yang at the key moment.

"Shawn, if that were true—why didn't he just run when Yang left him to spirit you off to God knows where?" Gus broke off and mumbled a quick prayer, as if he needed to remind himself that Yang _hadn't_ spirited Shawn off to God knows where. "I mean, he was basically free! Their hostages were still chained to a fence, so it wasn't like they were going to follow him, find him—"

"But Jules—" Shawn broke in.

"Sure, after Juliet got free, maybe he was spooked," Gus allotted, not believing a single word. "But come on, Shawn, he still had the chance to leave. He could have gone to the cops and turned himself in, explained his side of the story—no matter how ludicrous—and maybe have been offered some kind of plea deal. Because let's face it, Yang is a hot commodity—and her recapture is top priority."

Shawn listened, somewhat unwillingly, as Gus made more and more sense. _Why would . . . why would Mary have been interested in subduing Lassiter and dragging him away if there hadn't been some kind of plan to meet up with Yang later?_ He let out a long sigh, taking in more tension the more air he released. He replayed the scene, as he and Juliet had come upon it, every stark detail standing out in the emptiness of life. He didn't even remember hearing an engine start, and wondered now if Mary hadn't been behind it, pushing the car while it sat quietly in neutral. Pushing it to the edge, as close to a road—an escape route—as he could get. Then, gone.

Abruptly, Shawn sat down, not even privy to the milliseconds when his own mind had registered a weakness in his knees. This really wasn't over Mary, or Mary's supposed distrustfulness; it was that all the things that Shawn thought he'd known were untrue. He'd thought, for instance, that he'd been able to figure out Yang, understand why she'd chosen such a "game" with its wild, offbeat "rules", twists and turns, what was really up for grabs when she'd asked him to pick one or lose both, what she did really want, now and when all of this was over. But Gus was right—Shawn hadn't the slightest idea her intentions, with or without him in her clutches. He'd thought he'd be able to end this whole scary mess today—that maybe Yang would surrender, turning over all her good cards because she wanted Shawn to like her.

He was sitting level with some headstones now, and some were close enough to read but he was having a hard time focusing on the names. _Juliet is safe,_ a little voice reminded him. But he still hadn't won the game. Even though it felt as if he'd had. Shawn stared at the headstones, guiltily. A small part of him had desired this outcome—choosing Juliet, so obvious, since the day they'd first met, he'd always wanted to choose her.

Slowly, Shawn began to flash through his memories of all their encounters, how she always arrived on scene like sunshine (packing heat), how she always had a genuine smile for everyone around her.

_It's as if we've already met. As if we'd already known each other, long before._

She . . . hadn't given up on Lassiter in that first year, even though she perturbed him—challenged him by being an optimistic opposite—even though he made her, too often, unhappy.

And now . . . Juliet had chosen Shawn over loyalty to her partner, chasing after his captor, unarmed, ready to stop at nothing. Shawn stared at the words carved in the stone in his line of vision.

He could make out whirring sounds of voices above him, directed at him, but underneath that were the more important noises of those dedicated to the search. But just like at the hotel, Shawn felt it was all for nothing—Yang long gone. Maybe not _long_ gone; they'd had, at best, a few freewheeling minutes in which to scrape together something new.

Enough time while Juliet scrambled to form a plan and act, and wrangle him out Yang's car. He really didn't like to see Yang behind the wheel, Shawn decided.

He'd seen them, all four of them—they'd been right in front of his face. "They were right there, Gus," Shawn mumbled aloud, not knowing he was doing so. "I had them. And then there was one."

# # #

"Shawn, please stand up." A quiet plead, a generic voice, dulled by exasperation or numbness. He wasn't certain which one of them it had come from—could be anyone. He didn't dare look up. Here, he was eye level with the graves—sick all of a sudden that they could have just buried him, and took off for fresh blood. He'd lost.

Shawn flinched when a hand touched his shoulder. It could be anyone touching him, it could be Yang, never left, back for more.

What if he looked up, and it _was_ her? Had he really even gotten out of that car?

This . . . was the final resting place. Shawn worked to stifle a shiver, forced himself to picture Yang with her black and white mores, dark hair by light skin—the perverted version of Snow White offering him the apple instead. Or was it breadcrumbs? Shawn clenched a fist, trying not to get riled up; she was here. She could have left her ghost behind to spy on him.

"_Shawn, you look so nice in red today."_

She could see him. Shawn pressed his lips together, hard. That . . . nothing mattered besides getting himself to Jules. And Lassie. They were both here, waiting. Waiting for him to screw up their lives, and deaths.

And Yang. She was waiting too. Waiting with a grin—and a serious promise for fatal harm. He made himself keep on. "Shawn, you came!" Yang called out with child-like glee.

Shawn uprighted himself as if he were in a sudden trance, inadvertently throwing off Gus and Henry, who had had their hands on his shoulders. He strode to the spot where he'd first stopped, when he could see it all too well. As if it were the past, he called up the images and his own reaction to them—the grotesque tableau which Yang had set up for him.

Yes, it must have been her idea and not Mary's; there was never a word minced from Yang, and her clues led to elaborate artistic visions started with a cryptic note dropped off at the police station—the boardwalk, the drive-in theater—where there usually would be hundreds of witnesses—or, if something went wrong (or right), hundreds of victims.

So why had she chosen this place, with its already dead audience, and given him a sight for his eyes only? Was it because it was too sick a vision to share with anyone else? It was, Shawn thought, a perfect representation of what Yang had asked of him—both detectives threatened with certain death, or just one, if he failed to choose right. Saving both would have been impossible—both Lightly and Yang had it in them to kill.

Shawn replayed the words they'd exchanged; maybe it wasn't what he had seen or wasn't seeing but what he had—or hadn't—heard.

Yang had talked about death, about loving him and possibly worshipping him. She had teased or taunted him about his slowness of figuring out her riddles, and then she'd complemented him for being such a good opponent.

Shawn had cut her off with the reminder that he was not the Yin to her crazy and that he didn't like death and that they weren't alike, but she'd countered him. He did like death, she'd said, and demanded he cut her slack because he couldn't possibly know from only meeting her once that they weren't cut from the same cloth. But somehow, she "knew" it.

And then she got personal, making him talk about that night they had met. And then when he'd gotten "personal" with her, she'd denied him.

And then she asked him to "roll the dice" and make that final life and death decision.

And he had chosen himself.

All of this, minus unnecessary details and minor nuances, he'd told to Gus, his father, Marks, Vick, and that cold fish Detective Alexander, though painting the picture of the horrific setting he'd seen he considered lost on them. Only Gus had reacted while the rest had remained professional, listening attentively as if this were a story about someone else.

Juliet had not been present, as she had been at an ambulance, getting her neck, cheek and fingers bandaged, but Shawn guessed he would have to repeat the thing many times, and she was bound to be there for at least one of them.

It was getting dark, Shawn realized with an internal shiver. Nothing useful had been discovered yet, neither from him or from the entire squad combing the cemetery. He didn't want to face Gus or his father, but on his own he was only coming up with nothing, and nothing was useless.

They had found out about what he did from Juliet via his cell phone; Shawn had winced, miserable, but Juliet had shown him no mercy. Or perhaps it the blind worry over Lassiter's fate that made her keep talking. He had expected at least a reprimand from Vick, but both she and Marks stared at him with angry disappointment, as if he had betrayed them somehow. His father's reaction was most curious; at first, Henry looked pissed off and actually balled a fist as if to hit Shawn in the face.

But his anger had dissolved as he rushed forward and grabbed Shawn in a bone crushing hug. "What are you trying to do?" he hissed in Shawn's ear. "Give me a goddamned heart attack?"

"I wasn't trying," Shawn said in a shocked gasp. "Can you let me go? This is embarrassing."

Henry shot him an incredulous look as he let go. "You know better than to pull a stunt like that, kid. Where the hell were your brains?"

Shawn shrugged and was fortunate enough to have Gus show up and pull him off to the side. "That's what I'd like to know too, Shawn." He had been staring into Shawn's eyes as if he expected his friend vanish, like "poof!", right in front of him. And so began Gus's rigorous questioning and Shawn's bewildered answers; if it were anyone else, Shawn would have lied through his teeth. But as it was, Gus was the only one who asked.

Now, Shawn saw both his father and Gus standing behind him. They must have been watching him like a hawk as he stood in the past, replaying the conversations and not knowing the light was going dark.

As he opened his mouth to say something—hopefully an ice breaker—Shawn's phone rang. Freezing to the spot, he fumbled for it, and saw that his screen reported the caller to be unknown. Shawn raised his arm and waved it to get attention; he guessed he knew who it would be before he answered the phone.

"Incoming call, here!" he called out. "I'm sensing it could be Yang!"

He got his attention; quickly, Vick, Marks, and Juliet had joined Henry and Gus in a semi-circle around him. Some uniforms, including Buzz McNab, walked up behind them.

"Answer it, Mr. Spencer," Vick told him. "Put it on speaker."

Shawn nodded and did as she instructed. "Hello?"

Without preamble, and sounding like she was pouting, Yang said, "I'm going to kill him, Shawn." She sighed. "You've obviously made your choice."

Juliet pressed her hands against her mouth.

"No!" Shawn almost shouted. "I chose—me. Remember? You were there."

"I was, and I almost got away with it." She sounded too smug for Shawn's liking.

"But you said you wanted me. You can't have it both ways," he challenged her.

Yang laughed. "I think I can, if I want it so."

"I'm confused," Shawn said, ignoring the looks of the posse around him trying to catch his eye. It was hard; each one had a look they wanted to share with him. "You don't want me? You don't want me to like you?"

Shawn listened hard for her breathing; Yang hadn't spoken in more than a few seconds. It felt like an eternity. "Listen," he said, "why not tell me where you so I can come to you. Just me."

Shawn flinched at Vick snapping her fingers. He looked up, almost dropping the phone in the process, when he saw how intensely she looked back. She mouthed, "Don't you dare," and he mouthed back, "Location" with half a shrug. Vick's eyes were burning him. He had a feeling that she might slap him once the call was done; latent anger over his dumber than dumb actions.

"Yang?" Shawn asked tentatively, praying she was still there. He stole a glance at Juliet and wished immediately he could ask for proof of life; Juliet was as still as a tombstone, her hands still against her mouth as if she might cry out forcefully as she had done earlier.

"Shawnie," Yang began in a breathy, wispy voice, "you know what's happened here?" Her blunt delight in his ear made Shawn's skin go cold, but he was relieved she was still on the line. "This . . . you know those arcade games you loved as a kid? The ones you had to pay to play, a couple quarters of hard earned allowance money for a few games of _Space Invaders, Berzerk, Defender _or_ Bega's Battle?_"

Shawn's heart skipped beats when she mentioned these games; they had truthfully been among his top 10 afternoon wasters. Goose bumps raised on his arms as he fought away a sudden image of Yang looking over his shoulder as he'd played, oblivious to anything but what was on-screen.

Shawn's mouth was dry, but he forced out words to let her know he was still there, a common courtesy, he sneered to himself. "Yeah, sure."

Yang's voice was sickly sweet. "Of course you do, Shawn. I bet you were pretty good, or wanted to be pretty good, so you played—and paid—every chance you got."

She paused again, but Shawn had no time to collect his spiraling thoughts. He heard her smacking her lips. "But sometimes, when you were really good, I bet you got free games, or extra lives, so you could keep playing without having to feed that arcade slot. Well, Shawnie, last time you played my game, you certainly rose to every challenge, you saved all the lives I put in jeopardy, and you defeated me before I could blow anyone up. You were my most admirable foe."

Her casual tone made Shawn feel dizzy. The coldness had spread to his insides. Still holding the phone to his ear, he reached for Gus's arm to steady himself. Gus clamped his hand on to Shawn's arm for extra stability.

When she giggled, he almost jumped a mile, causing both himself and Gus to stagger for balance. "Well, Shawn, because of that, because of when we last met and played together, I'm going to make you an offer. One time only. All of what's happened and been done up until this moment has been your free play. Starting now, the real game begins."

What she didn't say was that someone was going to have to pay, but the message was clear enough. "My—my _free play_?" Shawn repeated. He flinched when Yang laughed loudly.

"Game on, Shawnie." She disconnected.

Game on.


End file.
